


His and Mine

by glitteredcurls



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Dystopia, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of surgery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 03:52:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 66,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18865144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteredcurls/pseuds/glitteredcurls
Summary: Harry is adopted by a wealthy family, soon to be cleared of his connection to his soulmate without discussion on his twentieth birthday-- a gruesome rite of passage. For the past eight years, Harry has been staring at one name: Louis. But what happens now that his heart starts fluttering for a stranger, helping him remain strong at his weakest points? Harry feels he should be cautious; what kind of person goes by the name Tomlinson anyway…OR Harry legally isn't supposed to meet his soulmate-- he's rendered physically unable to recognize him even if he did-- but yet, of course, he does.





	1. The Decision

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, being part of this fest has been so exciting and rewarding. HUGE thank you to [Bella](https://dystopianharry.tumblr.com/) for starting this and being an absolute angel! Another big thanks to [Toni](https://sweetcreatureep.tumblr.com/) for betaing this bad boy and being the kindest person to look at this for the first time. I've been working on this and writing for almost a year and this fest, Bella, and Toni, helped get her out into the world! I'm really proud of what I've got and hope you enjoy this lil adventure! x

_“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same” -Emily Bronte_

* * *

Beside the bread box, Harry could see the blue envelope resting on the kitchen counter. The paper looked thick and rough, the front flap pressed down by the Pairing Bureau’s official wax seal. He’d been eagerly waiting for its arrival for the past two weeks, but dreading it for eight years.

His guardians had sent out their application and letter to the Bureau two weeks after the New Year. Harry’s chance to meet his soulmate, his Betrothed, was balancing in the decision of not only his guardians, but the Bureau itself. The legal contract and fate of Harry’s future was tucked neatly inside. He was either to be granted full romantic freedom and ability to search for the one sent by God to his front step, or he was to be cleared and given a new spouse. The process used to be a forced ceremony in a different part of town, assuming their Betrothed would never know to follow. It had since wised up and changed into a procedure that would cut the name down its center, the spilt blood the cutting of veins shared between the two hearts.

The letter was no longer haunting Harry’s dreams, but rattling his reality-- all before he’d even showered.

The previous five minutes of being awake hadn’t gone out of the ordinary. He’d been called downstairs for breakfast three times. After a complaint for five more minutes to sleep, Harry fumbled for his spare glasses and started for the stairs. He nearly tripped twice on the second flight, which wasn’t all that uncommon, and made it to the landing without injury and with his typical frizzy bedhead.

His guardians, Catherine and Martin, were already sitting at the dining table. The familiar face of Martin’s head of finance, Zayn, sat across from him with a stack of budget sheets and a cup of black coffee. Zayn lifted a finger from his cup to greet Harry, smiling mostly with his cheeks. His guardians greeted with only their words, keeping to their own morning routine.

“‘Morning.” Harry said, yawning to punctuate his sentence. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses, lowering them back onto his nose roughly as he shuffled across the floor to join the table. In his unfocused peripherals, a spot of powder blue on the counter greeted Harry the loudest.

Harry didn’t prompt another greeting from his guardians; their protected secret was going to be revealed and they didn’t want a single smile or glance to give it away before Harry had a chance to get his hands on the letter. It was every twenty year old’s rite of passage to handle the legal proceedings of their parents’ decades-long decision, in which they were not allowed to argue on their own behalf. It was a birthright to be given the allusion of autonomy right when it really counted.

He fell into his seat beside Zayn, taking his glasses off to clean the lenses. They required Harry to fold his shirt around all four of his fingers in order to reach and completely clean the glass. They were obnoxiously large, but helpful when Harry was sewing; his field of clear vision far larger than his smaller round pair from childhood, and just under the full range he got with his contacts.

“Here for business already?” Harry said quietly to Zayn, turning and squinting to see his face. His lips parted as he furrowed his nose and tried to find the fine details of Zayn’s expression.

“Of course. Mar-- _Your father’s_ company never stops making money, unfortunately.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Martin said with a short laugh. “We want it thriving as this one’s birthday comes around, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir.” Harry nodded. He finished cleaning his glasses but placed them back on the table, arms folded up. He didn’t want to make any further eye contact with the envelope. It was a staring contest with God, and Harry honestly preferred to be blind.

“Would you like some tea, Eddie?” Catherine always called Harry by, what he learned to be, his middle name. She’d said she found it far more suitable for the family surname: Clarke. Harry Styles was left behind in the orphanage in Holmes Chapel.

“Sure, Mum. Please.” Harry said, smiling at her general outline that moved into the kitchen. The kettle was already near-whistling, a quiet whisper at the other end of the room. The sound was soon followed by the clattering of ceramic as Catherine grabbed a mug from the cabinets. Harry put his glasses back on and relieved his face from squinting. It was unsightly and rude, he’d been told.

“Sir, I’ve been meaning to ask on Brian’s behalf: have you heard from the Wallace wedding party since the holidays? They’ve had their fitting appointment floating for weeks. They haven’t given us a single payment either.” Zayn said. He tapped a column of his page and looked at Martin, his eyes attentive and dark in the dim dining room light. Harry was nearly caught staring.

In the near six years they’d known each other, Harry always found Zayn fascinating, something interesting to look at-- not that Harry really had a large pool of men to compare him to. It wasn’t romantic-- it couldn’t have been-- Harry just thought the way Zayn was always so sharply dressed and how he slicked his growing hair back was endlessly captivating. If Zayn was a reflection of what the rest of Aspull dressed like, Harry didn’t think he’d ever really be ready to be let out of the house and into the world. His Betrothed might actually stop his heart at first glance.

Until the Pairing Process was over and legal, Harry wasn’t allowed to meet anyone that wasn’t pre-approved or considered to be a safe encounter. Meeting a Betrothed was supposed to be an electric experience; being pulled above water after a lifetime of not knowing you’d been drowning. The connection was immediate and couldn’t be reversed. After a chance encounter, Harry’s guardians couldn’t risk asking Harry to go up against God’s own strategic planning with a few notarized documents. Clearing someone after meeting their Betrothed required a lot more than a surgical slice over a name. It was a full body death, brain trapped within the foggy walls of fried memories and fizzling, static sight.

As he sat at the dining table, looking between Zayn and the blue letter, that first full breath of air was all Harry could think about.

“They cancelled.” Martin said, shaking his head without remorse. Breaking off a wedding was virtually unheard of, but a decifict of funds nonetheless. Zayn’s face fell, his pen scribbling out a cell in his sheet slowly.

“Did something happen?” Harry said, trying to act like he could ask intelligent business questions. He turned his head to try and read Zayn’s sheet.

“The boy was cleared a second time.” Martin said shortly, eyes not lifting from his own paperwork. He grabbed Zayn’s sheet from under his pen to compare to his own. “The woman is marrying a Van Koy in May. The boy is being moved back to America.” Harry was hoping that hearing of such possibility wasn’t related to the Bureau’s decision.

“Second time?” Harry said quietly, not sure if anyone would bother to hear him. Zayn turned to Harry, lifting his eyebrows and nodding solemnly. He clicked his pen and placed it down by his mug.

“Sometimes. If they clear you and things still don’t go to plan, they just keep changing things until it works out.” Zayn answered, giving Harry far too much of an explanation than he deserved at the dining table. He spoke softly, knowing the words were heavy and feeding directly into Harry’s thrumming nerves. He must’ve seen the envelope too.

He might have been left in God’s Image, but Zayn was still only one of two people Harry knew who had finished the Pairing Process. They originally met when Zayn was twenty and one day **,** having just started working for the Clarke Tailoring Company. He’d moved from Bradford, against all traditions, to find better work and hopefully his Betrothed. Moving from a hometown ran the risk of losing a connection, and Zayn was constantly aware (and reminded), but at the current moment Zayn was one year into being with his Betrothed. Their wedding was dateless, but sitting comfortably on the horizon. Zayn got to experience the sensation of snapping back into place after not knowing he’d ever been in pieces.

“Playing God’s messy, huh?” Harry muttered, clenching his jaw. Zayn shrugged, pressing his lips together and humming in agreement quietly. They both neutralized their expressions as Catherine walked over with Harry’s cup of tea. She placed it on the table stiffly, careful not to lean on Harry’s shoulder.

Their relationship had tensed since Harry turned seventeen. It began on Christmas Eve. Harry was sitting in the living room with his adopted family, everyone eating the cinnamon buns he had helped Catherine make throughout the day. His sisters were hovering and pointing at the embroidery he was slowly threading, using only the firelight to guide him. Family holidays always made him anxious and he’d started a complicated flock of birds with which to torture his eyesight and feeble fingers; it kept him from trying to scratch the nervous itch under his trembling flesh with coarse fingernails. As he listened to the critique, a head rush saw him collapsing into his oldest sister. He felt hollow afterward, but still strangely calm. Catherine fretted over him, her lips pursed with an understanding Harry just didn’t grasp at the time-- still didn’t.

He was sure raising kids was terrifying, no matter the biological relation, but there was a certain overwhelming sense of fear over him that Catherine had been showing since. Recently, liquor had been locked up, cigarettes and smoking of any kind was banned from the estate grounds, cursing was scolded, and Harry was being sent more frequently to church and confession. Harry knew he wasn’t an easy child-- far too curious and way too emotional-- but he also liked to think he had every right to be. His entire childhood was spent fretting over the decision resting in the envelope six feet away, no clue or warning to prepare him.

“Here you are, Eddie. Decaf, just the way you like it.” She said. It wasn’t much of a discussion; Catherine told Harry to stop drinking caffeine about three weeks prior. Of all the restrictions of his diet, behavior, and social interactions, decaf seemed to be the only sensical thing.

“Thanks, Mum. Need a warm cuppa. Cold today, innit?” He pulled the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands to pull the mug closer to him.

“Careful, it’s hot.” She reached down and swatted his hands away. “You’ll burn yourself.”

“Yes, Mum.” Harry said. He placed his hands on the table, palms first, obeying the warning. His fingers curled inwards, pressing his nails against the soft of his palm.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Catherine asked, placing a hand on the back of Zayn’s chair, but not touching his back. The resentment wasn’t well disguised; it was as routine as anything else. “Martin, dear?”

Harry adjusted his glasses and rested his folded arms on the tabletop. The conversation beside him drifted away as Harry stared directly down into his steaming tea. A small reflection of himself emerged as the ripples flattened. His hair hung down on either side of his temples and framed the face staring back at him. The hair flopped down in curled tufts, finally having the weight to hang down to his jaw. His guardians had pushed for a haircut since it started touching his ears. Somehow, he was able to fight that decision. He had a strange, growing desire to see how long it could get without looking too disastrous. He had visions of fingers tangled in long hair-- _his_ hair-- and tugging at the nape of his neck, sending ripples down his spine.

Harry tucked his hair behind his ear as he blinked at his reflection. The tea had stilled and Harry’s eyes were able to watch themselves clearly on the its surface. Beside him, Zayn was talking about going down to the shop later in the afternoon if Harry needed to go out with a chaperone. Harry was trying not to abandon the conversation too quickly. The words lulled him into a state of distant silence; he could hear the words being said at arm’s reach, but could hear his own thoughts too. His headspace was the curious midway point of paying attention to neither.

The mug and table unfocused and Harry kept his eyes locked on himself despite only recognizing shapes. The color seemed to desaturate the longer he stayed unfocused. Finally, he blinked and the world snapped back. The mug was the proper faded moss color and the table’s wood grain was noticeable. Harry’s eyes though, still watching themselves in the water, seemed to flash, momentarily becoming darting pools of blue.

“H, we’re talking to you.” Zayn touched Harry’s shoulder and nudged him back to the forefront of reality.

“What?” He said, lifting his eyes and trying to find Zayn’s face in the sudden disorientation. “Where am I going?”

“I’m asking _you_ that.” Zayn said with a soft laugh. “Do you need a chaperone to go downtown?”

“It’s Wednesday.” Harry said. “I don’t have anything to do today. Nothing planned, but thanks.” Harry only left the house on Sundays: morning mass.

It was typically a bleak affair. Zayn would spend his mornings standing outside a foreign cathedral and waiting for Harry to finish fretting a rosary between his ringed fingers and melding holy water with tears. He’d spend three hours kneeling, hands clasped with words getting lost between his lips and the intended audience. God didn’t speak directly to anyone, and Harry knew it, but He was the only person he could ask to keep the Engraving and Betrothed he’d known since birth and before. The pews had heard far worse desperation. Harry wasn’t the first.

“Alright, thought I’d ask.” Zayn said, grabbing his coffee cup again.

“Well truthfully, there’s no need.” Catherine said slowly, starting to walk back toward the kitchen. Harry blinked. “Eddie, we have a surprise for you.”

Harry considered presents or even a home-made cake a surprise, not the possibility of having part of his arm carved out for a greater familial good. Once that name was gone, so was the possibility of ever connecting with them. Harry could pass his rightful match everyday afterward and never know. That wasn’t a surprise; it was the presentation of a coffin with a flourish.

“It’s here?” Harry said, chewing his lip.

“Was delivered this morning.” Catherine’s fingers gently slid the envelope off the counter. She held it between her middle finger and thumb, balanced with the other fingers splayed outward. Harry took it from her like she was holding a pistol, frightened it’d go off in his hands before he was ready to even see if it was loaded.

The front was sealed with pressed black wax. The imprinted crest was similar to the brooch Harry wore whenever he was in public. It was legally issued, but varied by area, to deter strangers from introducing themselves to Harry and possibly spoiling two decades of planning. It was a symmetrical, rounded pinwheel shape with two symbols engraved in the center pearl finish: a dagger and a small cross. It uncomfortably matched the one Harry had forcibly tattooed on his hand: a Clarke tradition. Harry’s left hand, and cross, trembled as he slipped his fingers under the flap, pulling and trying to pop the wax seal. Ripping the paper seemed inappropriate. It was a legal document; a possible death sentence tied up in blue paper.

Finally, the wax cracked along the edge and popped open. The paper sounded like sandpaper against Harry’s skin as he pushed it back to reach inside. His fingers expected a letter, a long document signed by the Bureau acknowledging the power they had hanging over Harry. Instead, he only found a small square of paper, like a business card. Harry held it up to his face, close enough that if he didn’t trust his glasses he could look under his frames and still be able to read the note with unaided eyes.

There were too many words for Harry to process, but enough in larger print to catch his attention, particularly a name: Monsignor Henry Byrne

“The monsignor?” Harry said, looking under his frames. The name didn’t change. “So, that means… you’re leaving my Engraving. You’re leaving me in God’s Image.” Harry felt an enormous weight escape as he sighed. His shoulders sagged and he felt like laughing, like chuckling would help all his tension crumble to pieces.

“Let me see that.” Zayn said slowly, reaching over his mug for the card. One hand grabbed the note, the other gripped Harry’s wrist. “Monsignor-- this doesn’t make any sense.” He breathed, shaking his head.

“What doesn’t?” Harry said, turning to Zayn. The air had stilled without Harry’s consent. The room was tense and Harry’s light laughter felt more like sobs. “What do you mean? He has to bless me. That’s the declaration of my blessing ceremony-- for my wedding.”

“Harry, this is a surgeon’s note.” Zayn sounded grim. The words didn’t entirely reach Harry, but his tone sure did.

“Surgeon’s note?” Harry repeated. “Wait, no. No. No that’s not right.” Harry started breathing heavy, his reality twisting before he had even processed his lie.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” Zayn said firmly, looking at Martin and Catherine. He was voicing Harry’s betrayal as he stalled. “This makes absolutely no sense. The business is secure with your three daughters and their marriages. Harry doesn’t need to marry off for money-- if that’s what you’re doing. We’ve been tracking the finances since he turned _nineteen_. You don’t have to do this.”

“It makes a bit more sense this way though.” Martin said calmly, placing his pen down. “Andrew’s son, Nicholas, has been unfortunately cleared and has been looking for a husband for him to help move the company away from Stockport. Grow in the smaller communities like Aspull. He approached me in late November, asked me to consider the… _offer_.” Harry’s fate had been sealed before he had even begun asking God to be left in His Image. It had all been a futile illusion.

“Harry wasn’t meant to be an asset.” Zayn said, his jaw clenched. Harry knew Zayn was defending him, but the confrontation sunk him further into his chair. “That’s what you told me.”

“With Nicholas, there’ll be no children. There’ll be no biological claim to anything in the family.” Martin said with a measured voice. It was just business.

“A fail-safe.” Zayn muttered, tossing the card down on the table. It slid over to Martin, a corner sticking under his spreadsheets. “ _That’s_ what this is.”

“You said it yourself, the business keeps making money. And it will continue to do so with Nicholas and the entire G & Shaw company-- but in case it doesn’t, Harry isn’t bound by any means, and neither is this family.” Martin was pleased with his financial decisions. A proud father refusing to accept Harry as his son on just one more level. Harry was never sure what he had done to deserve it.

“I talked to him plenty, darling. Nicholas is a wonderful boy.” Catherine grinned and eased herself into the seat at the head of the table. She grabbed Martin’s hand and picked up the surgeon’s note and read it fondly. Her decision approved by the highest authority; Harry had no leverage, not even if he was standing in church and begging God to change their minds. “You’re going to love him.”

“Sure.” Harry nodded, pushing his chair back. He was already in love with someone else-- _ready_ to be in love with someone else. “Can I be excused?” Harry was two days from being twenty years old and he still had to ask. It was obvious he had no agency in anything else.

“Be ready at noon for your suit fitting.” Catherine said, missing the paleness consuming Harry’s features. “Farnan--”

“Horan.” Zayn said, argument still trying to be won.

“ _Horan_ is coming back from Ireland to help with preparations for your birthday.”

Harry knew he should have been excited about seeing an old friend, and wanted to be, but the words seemed to only graze over his skin as he slipped away from the table. Zayn tried to stop him, grabbing his hand to keep him grounded at the table. Harry’s sleeve slipped through his fingers.

The mug of untouched tea was left on the table as he backed away. The foyer was dimly lit, Harry able to hide his quivering lip before he could reach isolation. He climbed both flights quickly, stumbling yet again before reaching the safety of his room. It was the only room on the third floor. It was wide, but most of the standing room was eliminated by the slanted roof. It was an attic, but it was all Harry’s.

Once alone, Harry felt cavernous.  Every breath felt empty, his mouth open and chest caving with each exhale. He had barely been awake an hour and he already felt compelled to crawl back into bed. Maybe if Harry pulled the sheets high enough over his head and he screamed loud enough, everything would pull away from him and give him the chance to take one last, long breath before he drowned.

In a burst, Harry yanked up his left shirt sleeve, eventually his entire shirt. Moments when he was by himself, Harry felt compelled to be alone with his Engraving. He liked to stare down at the name, fingers pulling and tracing the skin. He felt vulnerable, like there were other eyes-- large, round blue ones-- watching him. But it was only ever Harry.

He was the only pair of eyes to ever land on his Engraving up until that point. Due to the legalities of the Pairing Process, the name was covered whenever Harry was in public. His own solitude offered a chance to be unafraid. He and his Engraving often shared a reflection, Harry taking extra care to stand tall in the mirror, avoiding his boney ribs and crooked posture, to share the mirror with his Betrothed: _Louis_.

The name was warped and stretched along the long fluid lines, Harry’s growing body not taking nicely to the fine, artistic hand of fate. It was written on a slant, the cursive looking like it was constantly tipping over to lay in a heap on his arm. He had stared and studied the name enough to notice everything wrong with the five letters. God had messy handwriting.

Harry imagined him to be a tall man, taller than him and with broad, probably intimidating shoulders. Blue eyes like fresh springs searching and pouring all over him. It’d be the only pair of eyes that would get to see Harry as he was: every last scratch, freckle, wrinkle, scar, and blemish. This Louis would be the only one Harry would ever let see him how he was that morning, shirtless and still rubbing sleep out of his eyes and hoping to yawn the dark rings from under his eyes. The lonely motions of morning could become a ritual, a routine between two lost souls finally reunited after almost two decades chasing the tides.

Harry felt his Engraving with his palm. It lay flat against his skin, tucked perfectly underneath without tactical blemish. The skin was sensitive, shivering as he skated his fingers over it. Hours before, he’d thought there’d be a day when he could stand, just how he was then, and see his own name across the arm of his Betrothed-- of _Louis_. Their names would no longer be an easily spotted blemish but a magnet tugging them closer until they were cradled in each other’s warmth. He’d embrace someone and know he’d fit right against their flushed, heaving chest. He’d know that for the first time, he’d have someone that he rightfully belonged to. He wouldn’t be adopted or picked up or pitied. Harry would be a necessary other half to a greater whole. Harry would love and be loved unconditionally.

At least, that had been the lie fed to him to keep him sedated and slowing sinking.

Harry stepped away from his mirror and hit the bed with the back of his knees. He fell back, his eyes and hands unable to let go of Louis. The name was dark and heavy, the birthmark never being exposed to a drop of sunlight in twenty years. Louis had been Harry’s secret companion for years, and with one snap decision and sharp blade, he’d disappear for good.

Even then, folded and shaking on his bed, Harry swore the ink was fading. Somewhere, Louis was sitting his in own bedroom, looking at Harry’s name and dreaming of their reunion-- only to get a letter from the Bureau stating that their pairing had been severed by the Clarkes. That was if he hadn’t already been cleared and Harry’s guardians never shared the letter with him, their decision also rising out of necessity. It didn’t seem likely.

Despite lying on his side, Harry began to get lightheaded. His stomach churned with every breath, the room spinning too fast and floor warping by the door. The bed was firm and sturdy, but felt more like a boat in the water than a stretch of dry land on which to maroon himself. Harry grabbed his glasses and tossed them across the room and tried squeezing his eyes closed. He felt volatile, like his skin was going to tremble off his bones and his sobs were going to crack his ribs with a hiccup.

He dug his fingernails into the soft skin holding his Engraving. The skin gave easily, like it too was collapsing. The skin blanched under the pressure. The pain was blunt, but not sharp. It was like his bones were pushing through his fingers more so than into his arm. There was almost blood, welling up under his fingers and already promising bruises, when Harry pulled away. Louis was already set to bleed out, Harry didn’t need to help.

Harry rolled onto his back and let Louis lay beside him, his arm stretched out on the piled comforter. It was one of the last times he’d ever be in bed with him anyway. Alone with Louis and slowly starting to say his initial goodbyes. Harry felt small, and if part of his arm was cut Harry imagined he’d get smaller. He tried breathing slowly, his heart pounding in his chest and still jerking his stomach around.

“H-Harry?” Zayn knocked gently, careful not to startle him. “Harry, are you in there?”

“No.” Harry called back. His voice was deep and already fading.

“Don’t shut me out, H. Let me in.” Zayn knocked again but didn’t try the door. It was unlocked and they both knew it.

“Go away.” Bile rose in Harry’s throat as he groaned out another response. His throat felt numb and his chest grew in weight; it was supporting his heaving breaths, his heart, and the contents of his stomach.

“Harry, please.”

“No.” Harry spoke mostly to Zayn, but also to himself as he sat up. His left hand shot up to his mouth as he felt a ripple surge through him, his stomach clenching. He gagged audibly, his tongue trying to act as a backstop to his throat and keep his clothes and sheets white. “No no no no.”

“What’s going on?” Zayn asked but didn’t bother to wait. He opened the door and Harry could hear him clambering across the floor-- backtracking to grab Harry’s glasses on the floor-- and sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to be okay.”

“No. No no. No _no_ no.” Harry muttered, the word forming easily in his mouth and suffocating the rising tension in his throat. “No.”

“I know. I know.” Zayn echoed Harry softly in sound only. He placed Harry’s glasses back on his face, scratched but not cracked. Everything snapped back into focus and the whiplash made Harry dizzier. Zayn’s familiar and warm eyes pitied Harry. Somehow he felt even smaller.

Without his shirt, Harry couldn’t expect Zayn to comfort him. Harry thought he would turn away and leave him with only his eyesight. Instead, Zayn’s took in every embarrassing secret Harry had hoped to keep to himself: his strong, almost too-large legs and thighs that were folded under him, and starkly contrasted with his exposed torso; his one rib that protruded out farther than the others; his spine that was crooked ever so slightly when he hunched over; his shoulders that felt like wings jutting out of his back.

Eventually, Zayn’s eyes trailed to find Harry’s Engraving. It was the biggest flaw on Harry’s body now.

“Lewis?” Zayn read, gently pointing and touching the skin.

“Don’t.” Harry said, clenching his teeth. His bottom lip quivered hard enough to cause them to chatter. “It’s _Louis_.”

“I’m sorry.”  Zayn said, his hand retracting from Harry’s Engraving to carefully rest on his shoulder. “It’s a beautiful name.” The words barely left his lips.

“I can’t believe they did this. Y-You said! You were so sure!” Harry cried. “And now I’m being forced to pair with a stranger!”

“Technically, your Betrothed is a stranger too.”

“Would you say that about Liam? Would you have called Liam a stranger when you first met?” Harry snapped. Harry’s hand slid to cover his Engraving instinctively, protecting him-- _Louis_. Zayn shook his head slowly. “I had it all planned out.”

“Had what?”

“We’d meet right after my birthday party, after the priest blessed me. It’d be by accident, mere celestial intervention-- or just dumb luck I guess. I’d step outside of the party to get some air and I’d run into this man on the patio, you know how it overlooks the hills like that… He’d be standing there leaning on the railing with a cigarette in hand or something. And they’d be different ones than you smoke. He’d smell different; it wouldn’t feel like standing next to you. It would completely new. I’d have butterflies in my stomach and my heart in my throat and-- and-- he’d look over at me. It’d only take a moment before we’d both know.” Thinking of it made Harry feel dizzy again. It was a strange, heart aching seasickness. He quickly covered his mouth and dry heaved, his back arching. His spine pressed up against his skin like it threatened to push through.

“What can I do?” Zayn asked in a panic. He grabbed Harry’s shoulders with both hands, trying to give him steady ground.

“Tell them to change their minds. I don’t want to lose him. I can’t.” Harry had no idea what he was losing and somehow that was worse.

“I don’t know what happened, Harry. Honest. I’ve been adjacent to this decision since January of last year. Before Nicholas, they weren’t talking about anyone else. They had no names, no other plans. None they mentioned to me at least...” Zayn rambled, watching as Harry swallowed another slick cough. “I can’t understand why they’re doing this.”

“They’re trying to ruin my life. This is punishment.” His voice cracked as he seethed at Zayn; it sounded like a quiet whimper.

“No, don’t think like that. I-It’s not that.” He wasn’t convinced, neither of them were. Zayn moved closer to Harry and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. The touch was unusual for Harry. The warmth of his exposed skin was pressed against the cold stiffness of Zayn’s suit sleeve in a reinforcement of loneliness. He pulled Harry into him, placing a hand on his cheek and pulling his face into his shoulder. “We’ll figure something out, Harry.”

“My clearing is Friday.” Harry said, muttering against his jacket. His glasses were pressed uncomfortably against his cheek, his one eye squinting closed. “We can’t do anything, can we?” Harry didn’t want to believe what he was saying, but it was better than trying to prop himself up on false hope. It was easier to lean on Zayn and begin to parrot the truth.

Harry had heard clearings hurt more than the expected twinge of splitting skin. He’d read it was like a preliminary death. Like being left for dead in your own living body. His parents had put him up for adoption to make sure his life wasn’t shortened by their poor living conditions in Holmes Chapel, but it just so happened Harry was going to get his death sentence after all.

Zayn rested his chin on the top of Harry’s head and didn’t mutter a word. They were two grown men; one curling into the shell of his childhood and slowing beginning to shiver from the window’s draft, the other unprepared and shaking from the aftershock of a disaster. Zayn held him, shivers and all, until Harry had exhausted his anguish. There were no other avenues of despair to explore down to every minute detail. All he could do was breathe, heavy and slow, and realize that the only way out was through.

He’d have to live through every single moment it took until he got to the other side. Waking up in a better world was no longer an option. It never had been.

“Come on, let’s get dressed. Niall’s coming in a bit.” Zayn said finally, gently patting Harry’s arm. “We’ve got to get you covered up.”

“Why? What does it matter?” Harry let his hand drop from his Engraving, exposing them both again.

“You haven’t been cleared. Technically no one is allowed to see it. Not even me, so come on. Let me tie it.” Zayn eased Harry upright before rising from the bed. He crossed the warped, knotted wood floor to his dresser. Harry’s rings, rosary, St. William of Rochester necklace, and gold outings brooch rested in scattered order with a small strip of cotton fabric tangled underneath. Zayn slowly pulled the fabric out and smoothed it between his fingers as he walked back to Harry. “Come on. Up.”

Harry held out his arm obediently, letting Zayn place the woven fabric under his arm, bringing the edges over his Engraving and tying it. He slid the knot around, tucking it into the crook of his elbow and letting Harry pull his arm back to his body. Louis was on borrowed time as it was and Harry had to be ashamed of him. Better to start the grieving process early, he supposed.

“Now let’s get you dressed.” Zayn grabbed both of Harry’s hands and tugged him upward. Harry stood if only to stop from face planting onto the floor. “Do you need me to do it?” Zayn could have been patronizing, but Harry couldn’t imagine what his own face looked like; he might have really deserved it.

“I got it.” Harry pushed Zayn away. He barely had enough effort to move him, but the gesture was loud and clear. Harry could cover himself all on his own. He didn’t need anyone else trying to disguise what they considered to be blemishes.

The shirt Harry had worn to sleep, and had unceremoniously thrown off when he came back upstairs, was still on the floor. Harry left it by his feet as he shuffled to his dresser to dig around for a different shirt. Technically, a fitting required just a tank top or a plain white shirt, but Harry grabbed a black long sleeve shirt from his drawers and tugged it back over himself. It was a size too big and disguised every shape of his body helpful for a fitting.

Luckily, Harry’s choice went unnoticed, or at least ignored, as Zayn walked over to Harry’s desk. He braced his hand on the chair and looked at the embroidery hanging above it. It was an off-center attempt at a mermaid, from when Harry had found a bunch of fairy tales tucked away in the crawlspace behind his bed. It was one of his first embroidery attempts; the back was stained with blood, for every time he pricked his finger.

“I always forget how good you are at this, H.” Zayn said fondly, pointing at it. “You’re going to be amazing when you start working at the shop, you know. You were definitely born into the right family.” Zayn’s eyes darted away from the mermaid’s knotted scales and landed on Harry. “I’m sorry. That was terrible. I-I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Thank you.” Harry said anyway, nodding toward his work. He was being treated as a trade off, carved up for the pleasure of his new parents; he didn’t want to acknowledge the slip up. He changed the subject for Zayn’s benefit. “Taught myself, you know. Had to.” It was the perfect distraction.

“Niall didn’t?” Zayn looked relieved the conversation was carrying itself away from the awkwardness. Sometimes, he truly rivaled Harry for most embarrassing sentences.

“No, Niall started here when I was seventeen. Martin had already been priming me to become the next best tailor before I even met him-- then of course, Niall showed up and made my work look like shit.” Harry cracked a smile, thinking of his friend warmly, but felt it falter when he remembered how easily Martin had altered his interest in Harry. He’d been an asset his whole life. Adopted to only be passed around to the next business owner with the largest check.

“When you start your first shifts at the shop, you should ask Niall to join you.” Zayn suggested, turning back at Harry’s walls. “Just so you can really take off running.” Harry wished he could do so literally.

“Or do you mean so I have someone there when I start tailoring wedding suits?” Harry muttered, sitting back down on his bed. He grabbed his ankles and pulled his legs up in front of him. His back cracked and Zayn used the sound as an excuse to clock Harry’s expression. It was still warped and disappointed, but at least not any worse.

“Let’s just agree to say both.” Zayn muttered, biting his lip. With four parents already, Harry felt guilty for compelling Zayn to feel like he had to become the fifth.

Harry turned to his window to the yellowing Crack Willow outside. It’s branches stretched out and gently scraped along the roof sloping under Harry’s window. The branches were thin, but they’d supported Harry’s weight in his many midnight escapes. He never went far: only ever to the edge of the estate to look through the gate and out over the city. He’d watch the traffic ebb and flow into the city like a deep sigh before shuffling back. Most memories of his near-runaways were thoughts of Louis. His tall shadow flitting across the sidewalk as he stepped into a shop or into his apartment building. Their lives would seem to be on track to pass each other by until Louis would turn and look at him, his blue eyes flashing.

“Have you met Nicholas before?” Harry asked quietly, scratching his skin. It wasn’t itchy but the rough feeling helped itch some other unsettled part of him.

“Once, I think. In passing at a meeting when I just started working.” Zayn said, pulling the desk chair out to sit down. He rested his elbows on the desk and folded his arms. “Wasn’t allowed to talk to him at the time. He had the brooch on and everything.”

“D-Do you remember what color eyes he has?”

“His eyes?”

“Yes. Are they blue?” Harry didn’t think he could look into the eyes of another man at the altar without regret if he couldn’t even pretend he was the right person.

“Uh, I don’t think so.” Zayn replied, shrugging. He pulled his sleeve back and looked at his watch, quickly comparing it to the clock on the wall. He stood and took it down, turning it over in his hands. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. I guess I always thought they’d be blue. My husband’s, I guess.” Changing out Betrothed for the less formal term husband twisted Harry’s tongue.

“Parable of the Visions?” Zayn asked, looking up from the clock with lifted eyebrows and a still expression. “Already getting glimpses of him? You aren’t even twenty.”

If two people were lucky, God sent them strong visions of their Betrothed when they were close to crossing paths, just to help them along. To reward them for choosing His path after twenty years of hesitation. That Sunday’s mass had featured a story of wavering faith reinvigorated by the promise of rewarding patience with a set of piercing blue eyes.

“How old were you when you had them?” Harry kept itching even though the skin on his ankle began to peel off, the skin red, glossy, and beginning to sting. It was the only distraction his hands knew if they weren’t threading a needle.

“Twenty-three.”  Zayn hung the clock back on the wall. It had only been off by one minute.

“You didn’t meet Liam until you were twenty-five.” Harry muttered. “Two years of seeing him everywhere you went?”

“On and off, yeah.” Zayn nodded. “But, you won’t have to worry about them. They go away too. Afterward.”

Harry swallowed slowly, his throat dry. He felt nauseous, like he was swaying again-- or at least the rest of the room was. The sentiment was supposed to be comforting; that Harry wouldn’t still see the eyes of his Betrothed while he tried to force himself into another life. But if the visions stopped, then Harry would be all alone. The opportunity to disappear became greater.

A knock on his door startled them both. “Harry, you in here, buddy?”

“Yeah.” Harry answered, rubbing the new sore skin raw. “Zayn too.”

The door opened and Niall appeared, bright and chipper as usual. He was noticeably older than the last time Harry saw him: a beard growing in and hair willingly unstyled, but waved and neat just the same.

“There he is!” Niall cried. He hurried in the room and placed his sewing kit down and held his arms out for Harry. One of his coat sleeves was wrapped in a band colored with the Irish flag: his travel badge. “Jesus, you got fucking tall.” Harry crossed the room to Niall, holding his arms out and letting himself be pulled into the embrace.

“Hi.”

“I can’t believe it.” Niall said. His arms were wrapped tightly around Harry’s shoulders and upper back, gripping Harry with firm, stiff hands. “It’s been, what? Three years. Your hair was by your _ears_ last time I saw you.”

“I’m letting it go now, yeah.” Harry muttered, chin being pushed up by Niall’s shoulder and his words slightly strangled.

“Isn’t it a nice look for him? Catherine is convinced he’s going to bankrupt the family with hair like a beggar.” Zayn said with a gentle laugh.

“I missed you guys so much. Ireland isn’t the same without my bests.” Niall released Harry and slid his hands over his shoulders before letting them drop by his sides.

“I’m sure it’s fine.” Harry said. He ran a hand through his hair and restyled the mop. “It’s home for you.”

“It’s not the same.” Niall said with a look toward Zayn. Out of everyone Harry knew, or had learned about in a dinner conversation, Zayn and Niall were the only two to have moved away from their hometowns. It was extremely atypical, even for those that were in God’s Image.

Niall had quit working at the Clarke Tailoring Company in order to move back to Ireland and get married. He had been ushered to Aspull when he was twenty, his God-given Engraving in tact. Harry was sixteen when Niall started working for the company. He lasted one year before getting word that a friend’s sister hadn’t been cleared-- a friend whose name rested just under his skin. At seventeen, Harry stood in his window and waved Niall goodbye. It was his first loss to a wedding.

No one in the company particularly liked Niall for his premature departure. Niall was the best worker, fast and efficient, and was able to do the work of three people in half the time. Not only were they financially distraught over Niall’s uprooting, his jostling of God’s plan by moving to another country (only to _leave_ in a year) was thought to be an act of hubris none would tolerate or let infiltrate the family’s purity. Harry though, just thought Niall was sweet for going to all lengths to not only get the best job, but the best life for himself.

A letter had come in the mail with a wedding photo-- the original invitation being thrown into the fireplace before Harry could even attempt to preserve it. Harry saved the small print before anyone could find it. The couple looked happy, content and without a single stitch on their arms.

“How long are you in town? Hopefully longer than Friday.” Zayn said. In being away from home for so long, having other travelers around was a welcomed change.

“At least a week.” Niall held an arm out of for Zayn, still keeping Harry in a light grip to embrace both men at the same time.

“That sounds great.” Harry smiled. For a moment, Harry’s churning stomach settled. He wasn’t all alone. At least for the time being, before he was stricken of his one true pair, he had two perfect matches for him. An even better family. Niall patted their backs and pulled away.

“Surprisingly, Catherine is letting me stay in the guest room downstairs.” Niall said, looking at Zayn with lifted eyebrows. “Didn’t know I was still allowed hospitality.”

“I don’t think that has anything to do with hospitality. I think they just want you to teach me before I go to work on Saturday.” Harry said with a shrug. First day as a free citizen and he was exercising his freedom to walk to the shop to start his elected career.

“Saturday? They’re putting you to work that quickly?” Niall laughed, but shook his head at the thought. “Martin and Catherine are ruthless. Haven’t changed.”

“They really haven’t.” Harry said. He tried to keep his face neutral, but Zayn’s contorted with guilt that Niall read immediately.

“Wait. Did they decide?” Niall gasped, grabbing Harry by the shoulders. “Wait, did they?” He already seemed to know.

“Nicholas.” Harry repeated the only thing that made sense to him in the whole conversation. It was only a name. It was the only thing he could form lies around.

“And that’s not who’s on your--”

“No.” Harry shook his head. His fingers played with the strip of fabric tied around his arm. Part of him wanted to show Niall, to have another set of eyes know the truth, but he kept Louis covered and safe.

“Holy shit.” Niall sighed. It seemed to strike him just as hard as it had Harry.

As great as the empathy was, it wasn’t convincing Harry any further that being cleared had any upside whatsoever. Harry felt like he was trying to grapple with the ending of a life rather than a redirection. He had forty-eight hours to live every bit of life that he could before it was all predetermined, down to the coffin.

“Can we not… Can we not talk about it anymore?” Harry said, tugging at the ends of his hair and tucking it behind his ears again.

“Yeah. Let’s get you all trimmed up.” Niall smiled, but there was still disbelief echoing in his eyes. “Have to have the next CTC owner looking sharp, don’t we?”

Niall grabbed his sewing kit from the floor and placed it on the bed, unclipping the lid and lifting out his cushion of pins and chalk. Niall had hung the suit on the doorknob upon entering Harry’s room and pointed to it without a word. Harry unzipped the garment bag and laid his eyes on the metallic-looking wisteria suit hanging inside. Harry had picked the fabric swatch months before, running his hands over spools of patterns and textures before settling on the spiraled, purple fabric. It was a spectacle, Harry knew, but at the time he had only thought about being noticeable. He thought about being unavoidable, about drawing a pair of curious blue eyes over to Harry in the crowd before stepping onto the patio for a smoke.

Niall helped button Harry’s shirt while Zayn slipped the jacket up over his arms and to his shoulders. Harry moved with notable, and difficult, fatigue. As much as they were helping, Harry also knew they were trying not to waste most of the day standing around and putting pins in his cuffs. Niall centered Harry in the middle of the floor, in direct light from the window, and kneeled down to adjust his pant legs.

“How’s everything else around here?” Niall tried to ask with a tone of neutrality.

“Fine.” Harry said flatly. “Catherine’s got me on a diet: no caffeine, all vegetarian, can’t drink, can’t even be in the same room as Zayn when he smokes, can’t swear. It’s fucking bullshit.”

Niall looked up at Harry with a look of disgust, pins held between his lips. He quickly took them out and looked over at Zayn. “What the hell is this?”

“I’ve been waiting for someone else to be around so I could ask the same thing. I’ve started driving Liam up the wall about it.” Zayn said. It was news to Harry. “Started him about a month ago. Looks like he did when he was fourteen-- a fucking scarecrow.”

“I didn’t know you noticed that.” Harry placed his hands against his waist. There used to be soft pads resting over his hips, nice and healthy. Instead, Harry, somewhere underneath, could start to feel the ridge of bone. “I didn’t know the diet was weird… I thought it was for the party or something.”

“No, my parents didn’t do any of that.” Zayn shook his head. “You, Niall?” Niall remained kneeling, staring up at Harry, his expression frozen and blank. Other gears were spinning. “Niall? Mate, you okay?”

“Did you say a month?”

“A month on Friday I think.” Harry said. “Why?”

Niall turned to Zayn. “Do you think they’re performing a-a _purification_?”

“You mean like, ‘without sin, thou shan’t feel pain’ kind of bullshit?” Zayn stepped up to Harry’s side. He grabbed his arm lightly, fingers curling around the knot tucked into his elbow.

“‘Thou shan’t remember a damn thing’ is more like it.” Niall muttered, looking down to feed a pin through Harry’s pant leg.

“W-What are you talking about?” Harry was the most religious person there-- he had to be. He didn’t have the choice yet to decline. Niall stopped going to church when he was twenty and Zayn’s family didn’t believe the same order as Harry’s and never sent him to church as a teenager. Zayn only picked the stories up as he got older, mostly to understand Harry when he was spiraling. “Why don’t I know what you’re talking about?”

“It’s a tradition-- a very stupid one.” Zayn said, squeezing Harry’s arm. It was a gentle prod to get Harry to meet his eyes. “Parents that are worried about their child and their standing with God will put them through a kind of period of purity. It’s superstitious, amongst all _other_ superstitions in your church.”

“Why? I-I’ve never heard of this. What do you mean?” Harry felt his words bunch up in his mouth, unsure what to ask but not wanting the subject to slip away. “Someone explain it to me.” Niall and Zayn exchanged a look, Niall’s lips pursed as he slotted a pin back between them. “Please.”

Zayn sighed, still holding him. “So, you know what happens when someone meets their Betrothed before a clearing, right? It’s against the law.”

“They fry your brain. Start you over.” Harry said. In church, Harry broke into tears hearing about the way memories were scrambled and the entire life someone thought they lived was torn from them a second time. No one else was upset or bothered, but he thought his own heart was being mulched. Those people were so helpless they didn’t even have the opportunity to be scared. They couldn't remember why they should’ve been.

“Well, yeah. Bluntly, _yes_ . Where that comes from is this... _ancient_ belief that meeting your Betrothed before being blessed is a sin. It’s like…” Zayn bit his lip and grappled with his words.

“Like going against God twice.” Niall said, words tensed from his still lips.

“How’s _that_?”

“Well, first, you’re being cleared-- but that’s okay because you’re blessed… or _whatever_ ,” Zayn scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Second, you’re going back on the blessing. They think, that once you’re connected, and the priest cuts the name and clears you, all the sin rushes to your head. The bloodletting clears the soul, but the sins cling to the brain, the heart… and you black out.” Zayn placed his hand along Harry’s back, as if he was going to demonstrate while Niall was chalking a line around his ankle “But again, if parents are suspicious, they purify their kids. Their unchecked tradition makes their kids lose all this weight so then they’re exhausted and losing blood, so... so they _always_ pass out. And, well. The rest happens.” Zayn cleared his throat, the truth and bile rising to his mouth.

“Catherine and Martin think I’m… I’ve sinned.” Harry muttered. He’d never realized, or truly wanted to realize, how conditional his guardians’ love really was. They took him in, but in name only-- and only after making Harry give up his own. They’d been purifying him since they cradled him for the first time, seventeen years ago.

“They aren’t good people, Harry.” Zayn said finally. He placed a hand on the side of Harry’s face and pulled him in again. He put Harry’s head against his shoulder, taking his center of gravity off of his feet; he no longer was a tumbling risk.

“What did I do?”

“Nothing.” Niall placed his hands on Harry’s legs for reassurance. “You’re a great son. Obedient and kind and... lovingly awkward.” He smiled. While his words were drained, he was genuine. “You’ll be okay. We’ll make sure of it.”

“If you think I’m going to let a single thing happen to you, you’re fucking mad.” Zayn patted the side of Harry’s face and slowly eased him back up. “When Niall goes back, we’re all we have. They can’t hurt you.”

“Promise?” He wasn’t trying to argue, but correctly grieve. He waited for Niall and Zayn to argue, to deny his implied uncertainty.

They couldn’t offer anything that silence didn’t say loud and clear.

“Zayn, when’s the wedding?” Niall asked finally. He stood to begin checking the fit of Harry’s suit jacket.

“We aren’t sure.” He shrugged, still holding onto Harry’s hand. He twisted his fingers like there should have been rings on them. “Probably in the coming year. We both didn’t want to do anything until after Harry’s birthday.”

Harry blinked, the ripples in his vision stilling as he tried to refocus on Zayn’s eyes. “Liam doesn’t even know me.”

“You’re part of my day job. He hears about you every day when we have dinner.” Zayn said with a warm laugh. “I always talk about you.”

Nightly dinners with a Betrothed. Harry hadn’t even thought of missing them until then. Maybe with Nicholas he’d at least be allowed a glass of wine to pair with the dry conversation.

“I still have to meet this guy, Zayn.” Niall said. He opened Harry’s suit jacket and checked the inside pocket. Over it was a thin black patch, silver thread personalizing it with his birth name. Harry ran his fingers over it as Niall tried to look at his sleeve length.

“He’s been trying to take me to Golden Ink for weeks. He’s asked me for tomorrow night. If you come with me, I’ll definitely consider going out.” Zayn offered with a shrug.

“Tomorrow? _Absolutely_. I don’t think I can do two consecutive nights in here. No offense Harry.” Niall said.

“I’ve been doing seventeen years of it. I get it.” He said, letting his hands drop.

“Wait, you should come too!” Zayn said, clapping Harry on the back. He stumbled forward into Niall, lips parted in confusion.

“I should what?”

“Come with me, Liam, and Niall! Get your first drink!” Zayn had lost his mind. Or he was treating Harry like he really _was_ dying.

“A-Are _you_ about to blackout?”

“Come on. It’s the night before your birthday. I sneak you out, you have what? a _pint_ and then I get you back in bed by midnight or twelve thirty.” Zayn looked at Niall for confirmation in his plan. He shrugged, not entirely hating it. “It’s a Thursday so the place shouldn’t be a zoo either.”

“This is illegal.”

“You sneak out all the time.” Niall said, lifting his eyebrows. “I know it’s been years, but I’m pretty sure you can still scale that tree.”

Sneaking out beyond the estate’s front gates would be a terrifying first, but if Harry was going to be closed off for the rest of his life-- or possibly brain dead-- he figured that he’d have to take his chances. Before half of his senses were cut off, not only the half connected to Louis but to the world God had created for him as well, Harry wanted to know what the city down from the hill sounded like, what it felt like. He imagined every sound like a clashing headache. It sounded invigorating.

“I’ll do it.” Harry folded. “But I’m wearing my brooch.”

“Of course you are.” Zayn said sternly. “I won’t have that mess on my hands. Catherine will have me sent to Bradford in a coffin-- _if_ she’s feeling generous.”

“Let me help you out of this, Harry.” Niall said quietly, patting the sides of Harry’s waist.

Harry thought Niall meant of the situation until he began slipping the jacket off Harry’s shoulders. Despite his disgruntled far off look from discussing Catherine, Zayn stepped up to Harry. He held an arm out for him to grip in support as Niall slowly helped ease his pinned and sharp pants off. As he handed off the last piece, it occured to Harry that it wasn’t strange to be undressed with the two of them. They were extensions of homeliness. Actually, they were the only thing that made Harry feel at home. Harry hoped his Betrothed would do the same-- _had_ hoped.

“Your next job is to wear it handsomely on Friday.” Niall said, clapping his hands softly. With Zayn’s help, he hung the suit back up in the garment bag.

“That won’t be very difficult.” Zayn said. He gave Harry a fond smile, nodding as he looked over the suit again. The assurance settled nicely between Harry’s ribs, his chest swelling with a deep breath. It wasn’t enough, but it helped.

“Thank you both.”

“Anytime, Harry.” Niall kissed his cheek and rested his hands on Harry’s sides again. No one wanted to acknowledge the look of worry that crossed Niall’s face as his hands settled on his boney hips. “I’m going to go and start working on this so it’s all done and we can catch up tomorrow for real, okay?”

“Oh okay.”

“Zayn, help me get situated downstairs?” He nodded his head swiftly toward the door, but Zayn was already moving.

“Yeah, of course. Harry, take care, don’t worry yourself without us.” Zayn lifted a quick hand to wave. He and Niall disappeared uncharacteristically fast. When they closed the door, Harry for a split second thought that he really was alone, but Louis was still there.

Harry wasn’t worse off than when he came up to his room, but he was at least plateauing in his poor mood. He’d be able to lie down and let most of the day pass. With his legs outstretched on the bed, he’d watch the warm sun ripen and the golden streams shift over the bed. Catherine wouldn’t get him for dinner and he’d pass through into the evening without any disturbance.

Twenty years went by fast when there isn’t anything to stop it. It all seemed like a blink considering in two days he could possibly not remember a thing. Then again, what memories would he have to save? Everything worth cherishing was a dream. It hadn’t happened yet, and probably wouldn’t. Maybe it was better to let them go.

Harry slowly knelt by his bed, resting his elbows on the mattress as he clasped his hands. While sitting in a room with strangers in a cathedral was humbling, it often felt too concentrated and forced to Harry. He felt safer praying in his room, the city a timid glow in the distance, telling God that no matter what his parents had decided, he wanted to follow His plan and his Engraving to true happiness.

“Lord, I know that You are here with me, and… and, I know...”

What really did he have to say to Him? What more could Harry do to defend his own standing with God? Any prayer would be futile and directed to the wrong man. Harry shifted his arms and cleared his throat.

“Louis, I know that you are here with me, and… and I’m sorry.” Harry was pathetic and knew it. He was small and helpless and so full of love and daydreams. He terrified himself sometimes. “I don’t know where we went wrong-- Fuck, who am I kidding. I did this. I ruined it for both of us.” Eddie Clarke wasn’t Louis’ soulmate. Having no one was better than having a simple costume parading around with a inheritable fortune. “I’ll never know if we ever actually meet, but I’d like to think I’ll like you anyway. Maybe… Maybe I’ll be your favorite tailor, fixing your wedding tux and fixing a button you tear off your shirt right before a meeting. We’ll be in each other’s lives but won’t know. And I’m so sorry. You deserve to be loved with the boldness God has granted us. I’m so sorry, Louis. May in death will you forgive me for my sins.”

When pairs were split by death, the separation was less painful for the clueless half. God reclaimed part of His power, but allowed the love placed inside one half to comfort the other. It acted as a cushion around their heart, absorbing the grief and attempt to comprehend an unfinished life.

Harry couldn’t even consider death. He had a business to run and a wedding to attend-- nevermind the one he had to be in. He was still integral in someone’s life, even if it stopped being Louis’. Life would go on, as much as Harry didn’t want it to.

He’d be okay come Friday.

“And in your name I pray. Amen.”

He’d have to be.


	2. The Cut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that has the Clearing, so be aware that there will be more-than-mentions of blood if that sort of thing really bothers you! I didn't write anything too graphic, but just be aware! x

Thursday morning, Harry woke to his stomach in tight twists **.** His arms coiled around his sides, hands gripping and clawing at his skin. He was drenched in a cold sweat and for his first moments awake, everything was spinning. The posters and sewing hoops on his walls seemed to drip to the floor, words smearing in the bleary blinking of his confusion. Harry groaned into his pillow and pressed his arms against his lower stomach, trying to alleviate the strange pressure. It wasn’t pain so much as a knot, like he woke up anxious after having an incoherent dream--

Water. Lots of water. Shallow pools of blue, waves lapping against his ankles like a gentle blinking of the tides. Like the ocean was looking right at him. Like Harry was home in the foreign sea.

Harry had never even been to the ocean.

It only lasted another minute, Harry grounding himself in the smell of his pillows-- floral hypoallergenic detergent and residual hair product. It wasn’t glamorous or particularly appealing; it had to be reality.

While not waking to an alarm, Harry was still up at just the right time to shower before anyone came banging on his door. His arms were hesitant to release their push, but once Harry was slowly assured he wouldn’t start spinning again, he pushed his blankets back and rubbed his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling in a slight haze.

He still felt a bit disoriented, like he was drifting in a wave. His body swayed with the rhythm rippling from deep in his bones. His eyes slipped closed and he breathed slowly, like the exhale of an ocean wave onto the shore. It would have lulled Harry to sleep if there wasn’t a gentle knock on the door.

“Eddie, dear, are you awake?” So maybe not up at _just_ the right time.

“Yes, Mum!” Harry pushed himself up in bed and tried to muster a smile. He hadn’t showered since Tuesday and was still in his clothes from the morning before. He definitely didn’t look particularly presentable, but he knew there was no other choice. He grabbed his glasses and grinned at the door.

“I want to get you to started on the paperwork for tomorrow.” Catherine appeared in the doorway. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun, her apron knotted tightly and stiffly folded around her waist. Harry had read a fairy tale with a mother that looked like Catherine did then: warm and covered in flour from making cookies to welcome her children home and into her arms. For a moment, Harry pretended. His smile was genuine and her round face comforted Harry.

“Okay, I’ll be down in a minute, Mum.”

“Do make yourself proper before meeting us downstairs. We have a guest.” She said tensely, looking at him. “And put in your contacts, Eddie. Those glasses are distracting.”

“Yes, Mum.” He took the glasses off and placed them beside him on the bed. While the sweet fairy tale mother wasn’t true, Harry still seemed to be the ugly step-child.

“Breakfast in fifteen minutes with your father.” She said. She closed the door without another look at Harry.

Partially blind and with barely manageable depth perception, Harry felt his way to the bathroom at the other end of the room. It was small, tiled completely in faded yellow, and most likely only on the third floor so Harry didn’t have to appear on the second or first. When his shower broke, back when his sisters lived in the house, sharing the bathroom wasn’t so much of a hassle as it was a battleground. Using the hot water became excusable grounds to claim that their mother loved the three of them more, or that she never loved him at all.

To aid in his own navigation, Harry had gotten navy blue contact cases to pop out against the daffodil colored tap. His fingers fumbled to unscrew the cap, bringing it close to his face to see his work clearly. With both caps off, and only dropped into the sink basin twice, Harry put his case down and washed his hands. The water was a slow, unagitated flow, but it felt like a rush against his skin. He jerked his hands away, scared that if he wasn’t careful he’d get pulled away by a rip current. Even without seeing it, Harry could hear the gentle flow of the water down the drain. His hands though, seemed to be grabbing at a rushing shore wave.

Harry looked up to the mirror, barely seeing himself clearly in the reflection, and tried to find signs he was cemented in reality. As he blinked, nothing moved or rippled. He was on land. He was awake.

Looking back at the tap, the two navy contact caps had lightened as Harry’s eyes passed over them. They became spots of pure blue, splashes of kindness against the monochrome room.

“Louis?” Harry muttered, reaching for the caps. They dissolved back to their deep navy as Harry’s fingers fell on them. “No, don’t go please.” He whispered, looking elsewhere in the room. He had no control of his visions, but was hoping they’d possess another aspect of the room and grant Harry his last comforts. He only had another twenty-four hours of them.

He didn’t expect any answer, but for a moment Harry was hopeful. He pulled up his sleeve and untied his wrap, his fingers free to trace over his Engraving. Against his pale skin, unexposed to any elements, the lines looked darker and heavier than the morning previous. It was always a blur to Harry in the morning, but even through the unrefined shapes, Louis’ name stood out and met his fingers. It wasn’t quite an answer to his prayer, but he’d take it.

“Good morning.” Harry said to him, pulling his sleeve back down.

The second time around, the tap seemed to have calmed. Harry was able to run his hands under the water without an issue. He cupped his hands and splashed his face, trying to liven his skin up and without much time to take a proper shower. After washing his face, he washed his hands and quickly put his contacts in. He regretted the improved vision in the moments immediately after, as he realized how matted his hair had gotten in his sleep. He made quick work of combing it out with his fingers and tying part of it up on the top of his head. It was messy, but he’d be passable at the table.

Harry grabbed a sweatshirt from the back of his desk chair to put over his sleep shirt. He zipped it halfway, hoping to cover most of the wrinkles from lying on it. On his dresser, he grabbed his St. William necklace and rings, hoping the jewelry would dress up his wearable fatigue. The necklace had been giving to him when he was a baby. Not that he remembered, but he’d definitely been gifted it when he was old enough to no longer be threatened by the possibility of choking on it. His rings were also handed down, but the significance was mostly lost on him. One was red, a deep ruby like a screaming sunset; another was simple and silver, like a band keeping Harry to only himself and mostly likely soon to be replaced by a gold one of completely different meaning; one was threaded, like the metal was woven fabric; and the largest of them had three blue stones, like wearing the licking waves of the shore on his pointer finger. Martin had a similar one with blue stones as well, but no one acknowledged the similarity. The only thing given to him by his adopted family and answers weren’t a part of any of it.

Harry tucked the necklace under his shirt and twisted each ring on smoothly. Lastly, his gold brooch was pinned to his sweatshirt, hanging heavy on the thin fabric. His mirror hung in the middle of his wall, facing his bed, but Harry went for his bedroom door without tracing back to see himself.

He took the stairs quickly, swinging around the first flight and jumping over the last three steps to the landing of the second. He could hear Niall talking first, his voice strange in the hallways of the house. Upon approach, the voices stopped and Harry was left feeling like an intruder.

Catherine was standing in the kitchen, back to the table; Niall was sitting with his back to Harry; and Martin was standing, hands on the tabletop and staring down at Niall. Niall turned to look at Harry, mouth clamped shut and eyes fiery behind his glasses.

“Good morning.” Harry said, biting his lip. “Am I interrupting?”

“No. Come on and sit with me.” Niall intercepted Harry first, waving him to the dining table. “Catherine is making breakfast. Full English.”

“Oh.” Harry knew what they’d been arguing; Harry couldn’t eat any of the foods being prepared. He walked in and sat beside Niall silently. He noticed his presence made no sound in the dining room; he’d forgotten his shoes. As he sat down, he crossed his ankles and tucked them under his chair, hoping to go undetected.

“Last day of the work week for me.” Martin said at Harry. He never addressed him by any name. “Taking all of Friday off to help you welcome everyone over for the party.” Harry really was going to need all the help he could get.

“And I finished your suit last night, so I’m officially yours from now until I leave next Wednesday.” Niall added, placing a hand on Harry’s back. “Ready to raise some hell?”

“You bet.” Harry said, a chuckle bouncing around his chest and into his throat. It felt misplaced at the dining table, and with Harry’s mild nausea, but Harry gripped his left arm and felt for his Engraving. The joy did belong. “I get bored of the same shit every day.”

“Language, Edward!” Catherine said sternly, having come closer to the table with two plates. “Don’t pick up that filthy habit now, I swear.”

“I haven’t.” Harry said, shaking his head. “Sorry, Mum. I’ll be better.”

“Can’t have you meeting Nicholas and making a bad impression.” Her tone softened and she smiled, but Harry found a threat in it. His hand dropped away from his Engraving and rested on the tabletop.

“I won’t.” Harry said. “I’ll be good.”

Catherine hummed happily as Harry folded before her. She placed the two plates down in front of both Niall and Martin. The plates were loaded and the ceramic sounded heavier than usual on the table. Harry tried not to look as Niall picked up his fork and began to dig into his eggs.

“What do you want, Eddie, sweetheart? I have a grapefruit, banana, oh, I have an apple if you’d like. What can I get for you?” Catherine asked.

“Oh, I get to choose now.” Harry muttered, leaning back in his seat to see the fruit in question. He looked at the grapefruit again, but wasn’t sure if he had the energy to eat one. The banana looked far too ripe for Harry’s liking and the apple had a brown spot that was definitely grounds to avoid the entire piece. “I’ll just take some tea, I guess.”

“This is the last meal you can have before your clearing, Eddie. You have to eat something.” Catherine said, placing her hands in her apron.

“He has to _fast_ for the procedure?” Niall said incredulously. “Are you trying to kill him?” He seemed to be picking up right where he left off.

“I don’t remember this being any of your business, Mr. Horan.” Catherine said shrilly. She grabbed the banana from the bowl and placed it on the table, choice revoked from Harry. “You no longer work for this family. You are not involved. Let us save him.”

Save. Like Harry was headed for certain doom and debauchery. Sitting in silent prayer in his room most nights before bed and daydreaming about gentle tracings of fingertips over his hands, ghosting over his Engraving to then settle and grip his shoulder were grounds for repentance. Harry was filthy for dreaming of the man he was meant to spend the rest of his life with.

He had one thought, _one time_ , of the first time they’d ever kiss. The hesitant gasp of two souls meeting in the panicked warmth of quivering lips. The cold hands brushing against cheeks before gripping hips and clinging to every shred of willpower. The way it must feel to be close to someone and not be afraid, the tight clenching in Harry’s stomach dissolving as he sighed out the name of his Betrothed and let them memorize his skin with their fingertips. It was a fleeting moment, a staggering flash of moments-- almost like memories-- berating his stagnant brain during mindless revising of his French. The thought had never occurred to Harry-- was never _allowed_ to-- but it struck him silent at eighteen, too timid to admit to himself it was the most exciting part of having a God-sent pair. Trust wouldn’t feel naive, it was earned through the earnest existence that brought them together. God trusted Louis which meant Harry could too. He wanted to, with his whole heart and body.

And Harry guessed that’s where he had gone wrong. He had sinned in thinking he deserved to be intimate with a soul that half belonged to him.

Niall didn’t bother to argue with Catherine, noting Harry’s resigned face nodding to the argument. The following silence was a competition, the scraping of forks across their plates encouraging someone to speak first to challenge the ruling. Harry ate his banana slowly, waiting for Niall to slam his fists down and start shouting again. He’d heard it once before: the three of them arguing over Niall’s decision to move back to Ireland. Harry learned then what real confrontation sounded like; it wasn’t small sobs hidden behind shaking hands. It was unbothered admittance of needs and the threat that all on the opposing side were replaceable. Commitment was conditional.

Nothing happened though. Catherine sat with Martin as he finished his breakfast, taking his plate and walking to the sink afterward. Niall ate far slower, grateful for each bite, Harry was sure, but not wanting to inhibit himself from shouting back. Eventually, Martin stood from the table, collected himself, and exited from the dining room without much of a glance to either Niall or Harry. Harry waved meekly, but knew not to be the first to speak. With her back turned, Catherine became a less intimidating force, but still omnipresent. Once the sink faucet turned on, Niall turned to Harry and slid his plate over to him.

 _“Eat.”_ Niall mouthed, holding his fork out to him. Harry shook his head and pushed it back to him. “ _Harry, just take some. We’ll get you more later if you come out with us, but you have to--”_

The sink turned off and Catherine moved along the counter to rest the plate in the drying rack. Niall yanked his plate back and fiddled with a piece of toast hanging over the edge. She stopped, placing her hands on the counter to face both of them. Harry gripped his sleeves under the table, wondering then just how unpresentable he looked.

“He forgot the paperwork. The whole reason you’re here.” She huffed. “Let me get it, Edward. Stay here.” She stormed around the counter and to the neighboring room.

“I thought I was here because it was breakfast.” Harry muttered, looking at Niall.

“We’re both here for legal reasons.” Niall said with a sigh. He held up a piece of toast to Harry. “You’re signing your clearing documents and I’m the witness.”

“Oh.” Harry took the toast and held it as his hand rested against the tabletop. “That’s disappointing.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you an actual meal later tonight. I’m sure Liam knows where to get you loaded and full.” Niall pushed his plate over to Harry again, already digging his fork into the eggs.

“I can’t get drunk.” Harry said it as if it was physically impossible. “I mean, I don’t know if it’d be the best time to do that.”

“Of course. Of course.” Niall nodded and pushed the fork to Harry’s side of the plate. “Let’s still have you eat though.”

Harry wasn’t sure he could eat. His stomach had been unsettled since the morning, both from motion sickness and uneasiness. Niall’s plate warped under Harry’s hands if he didn’t continue to blink it into focus. There were no eyes in Niall’s coffee cup, but the brilliant blue Delilahs brushed on the edge of the plate seemed to meet Harry’s unbothered, fixed stare.

What was one more impurity?

Harry ate quickly, barely chewing his toast before swallowing it. He brushed crumbs from his hands and table as he heard Catherine’s heels clicking back toward them. The plate was nearly half finished from when it was pushed to him. Harry felt worse, but at least he wasn’t empty.

“Here. I need you to sign for the priest and your brooch, Eddie.” Catherine placed stiff pieces of paper in front of Harry. She took his banana peel from his hand and replaced it with a pen.

Harry looked down and scanned the documents as quickly as possible; he couldn’t show any hesitation in doing what he was told. One document was an agreement form to have Harry’s golden brooch melted down to become his future wedding ring. After the priest blessed the brooch at his party, he had to send it away, only to then sit impatiently for yet another letter from the Bureau. The other was a consent form to his surgery the following evening. There were instructions and rules-- Harry had to be awake for it, had to be in his home and with a licensed priest, and he was allowed to have one non-family member-- but along the bottom was the thin line requesting Harry to sign and agree that he’d go willingly.

It was cruel to tease him with choice, like he could possibly argue with legal decisions.

“W-What name do I sign?” Harry asked slowly, testing the pen on the back of his hand. He drew a small _L_.

“You’re registered under your birth name.” Catherine said, nearly gritting her teeth. “For now.”

Harry was out of practice, losing an “r” in his first name, the “y” in his last name stretching down too far, and the last two letters fizzling off with a tremble in his wrist. The first time he broke the silence of his birth name and he was signing it away.

“There.” Harry said, swiping his pen across the second dotted line. Surrendered as promised.

“I'll send it for the priest this afternoon.” Catherine said, taking them both. “The last set of business is the guest list.” There was a jolt of hope in Harry’s chest, thinking he could request a single visitor, a pair of beloved eyes to meet him through cigarette smoke. Then he saw Catherine produce the list and let it fall in front of him.

Although, honestly, the list wasn’t much of a list; it was a book. A small bound stack of papers with names and photographs resting at Harry’s place setting.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Harry muttered, holding it up as he looked over at Niall. “How does anyone know this many people?” He really only cared to know one.

He paged through it quickly, searching the names for the one etched into his skin. Everyone seemed to have four names or roman numerals following their last. Harry was coldly reminded that he truly hadn’t met anyone else. Sure, Harry had seen plenty of people before, but he’d never introduced himself before. Up until then, all introductions had been made for him to people that already seemed to know a lot about him.

Harry understood the purpose of reading the booklet, and catching up on nineteen years of solitude, but it made him feel artificial. He’d introduce himself, shake the other person’s hand, and make small talk about topics they both knew the other’s answers for. The rest of his life wouldn’t be like that.

While working at the shop, strangers of all types would come through the door. Harry would get the chance to meet them unprepared, and with every bit of warranted awkwardness from then until he was at least twenty-two. The fear that caused Harry to be quarantined was, of course, because any single one of them could be his Betrothed, strolling in and asking to have their pants hemmed or cuffs lifted. Strangers held a lot more power if they could unknowingly introduce themselves and change Harry’s entire life.

“He has to learn that by tomorrow?” Niall asked, knowing damn well what the answer was.

“Eddie’s a fast reader.” Catherine said, folding the papers against the table. She tucked them into her apron before swiftly going back through the other room. Niall stared after her.

“How could she know that? She didn’t teach me to read.” Harry tisked, looking back down to the book. Harry was never allowed to go to school with the other kids.

“Who did?” Niall asked, surprised. He’d never considered it. “One of us?”

“I could definitely read by the time you and Zayn started working.” Harry laughed. “One of the priests, actually. Practiced with all the old hymns… Still not sure why they made me study French and not Latin. I would have been so much better.”

“You’re never going to leave Aspull if your pare-- Catherine and Martin have anything to do with it. Not sure why they forced French on you.” Niall agreed. He leaned his elbow on the table and fixed his view over the booklet.

“Monsignor Byrne suggested it I think.” Harry shrugged. “God told him I’d need French, I guess.”

Niall rolled his eyes and prodded the first page with his finger. “Come on, French aside. I’ll help you study.”

“You don’t have to.” Harry said, shaking his head. “You’ve already done this once for yourself.”

“My birthday celebration had nine people.” Niall said. “I have more than enough room in my head to learn some useless wool manufacturers. Also, it’d probably help if _I_ knew some of these people. It’s been a while.”

Every name was stuffy and ridiculous. The fashion industry was horrifically boring if everyone important was typed on the fifty pages in front of him. Then again, of course it wasn’t everyone important-- his parents invited in the interest of influence and networking, not genuine contributions. After he’d passed through at least the past three generations of tailors, Harry cut through the pages to get to the last quarter of the names. One face stuck out to him: younger than the others, barely older than Harry, and actually trying to smile in the picture. Nicholas.

“This is him.” Harry said, scared the photo would overhear him. “Oh my god.”

Niall leaned over to admire the photograph as well. Nicholas wasn’t ugly by any means. He was handsome and had a nice smile, teeth generously spaced and sized, and wrinkles forming by his eyes. His hair was dark, parted tastefully and blown into curls. He looked harmless, not necessarily lovable.

He wasn’t Harry’s whole world.

“He barely seems old enough to operate a sewing machine.” Niall muttered. “No offense.”

“That’s who they picked for me.” Harry ran his hand over the page hesitantly, afraid to touch Nicholas’ face by accident. He didn’t want to pretend he could feel his cool skin under his fingertips, the way he could always feel Louis’.

“He looks… daft.” Niall said. “Sweet, but probably doesn’t have much resting between the ears, Harry.”

“Good to know they think so highly of me.” Harry said, turning the page harshly. The edge, right by the spine, stiffened strangely and Harry nearly ripped the page down the middle. Innocent and vapid didn’t sound like anything Harry wanted to have buried under his skin forever.

It would be like grave-robbing, in a way. Louis was cut and yanked from the ground, kicking and screaming but still somehow already dead, and replaced by the empty soul of this new husband.

“This has nothing to do with you.” Niall said, although he immediately stopped and tried to evaluate how many ways he had been wrong. Harry sighed and kept flipping through the booklet. “I mean, it wasn’t a personal attack, Harry. You can’t think like that. You’re going to survive this.”

Harry turned his head sharply. The strings of his sweatshirt swung out and hit Harry on the neck, the other clacking against his brooch. With the swift movement, Harry felt his depth perception dive-- sink into a sheet of water hanging in front of his eyes. He felt nauseous, the water filling up around him.

“Survive? I haven’t suffered for twenty years to just _survive_.” Harry spat.

Niall placed his hand on Harry’s back, wordless and apologetic. There was nothing Harry could expect Niall to do other than sit beside him and not allow him to wander down the spiraling truth of his future on his own. Harry knew his life would end that way, but it was nice to enter it with someone else.

“If I could take your place, God, I’d do it in a heartbeat. We both would.” Niall spoke like a parent, like he and Zayn were somehow included and interconnected in every action of the other. Harry was sure there were some names, invisible ones carved on the inside of bones, that linked two souls beyond love or destiny. Niall and Zayn weren’t meant to love each other, but some part of Harry couldn’t help by pray that they were meant to love _him_.

He prayed he was following at least _one_ of God’s plans.

Harry smiled but let his eyes drop back down to the book. He hadn’t learned a single name. Harry had one more day to spend trapped in his house, why wouldn’t he be spending it hurting his eyes, squinting at the fine print surrounding strangers. He’d only been awake for an hour but Harry wanted to get back in bed, blankets haphazardly draped over him, sun suspended and giving him one last chance.

“Would it help if I got you something to eat and met you back in your room to make fun of these stuffy nobodies?” Niall said with a smile.

“It would, yeah.” Harry nodded. “I think that would help a lot.”

Niall stood and grabbed his coat, making a hurried exit. Harry was startled but appreciative; he really was feeling weak. Above all too, his wobbling vision could probably be cured by something heavier than leafy greens.

Malnutrition though, wasn’t the cause or cure to Harry’s loitering hallucinations.

Every pair of eyes Harry met in the book blinked into a soothing, cool blue before fading back to their usual browns and greens. They were the one pair of eyes, the one face, he was hoping to see in the book. The name never appeared anywhere but Harry’s arm.

Their souls were never going to meet.

If Harry didn’t feel empty before, he was collapsing on himself by then.

* * *

Niall returned after an hour. Harry had migrated up to his room and was lying on his bed, running his fingers over his Engraving, when Niall came in. Harry quickly pulled down his sleeve and concealed the name before sitting up to greet him.

Niall brought Harry almost an entire day’s worth of food. They both sat on the floor by his bed, book between them and food circled around Harry. He hadn’t eaten anything that wasn’t a raw vegetable in a month. The soup Niall brought was cradled in his hands as Niall began reading off names and the facts provided. Harry sipped the broth quietly, mentally repeating what Niall said before nodding for him to continue.

Harry almost spit up all over himself as the facts became less of topics for small talk and more so possible knowledge for insider trading. Harry was going to pass out on Friday from boredom and get himself banished to prison or worse. Maybe in the world of mush brains and frazzled memories people had more exciting lives. Maybe it was fucking worth it.

Somehow, Harry was still slowly munching by the late afternoon. He’d picked his way across the most satisfying breakfast he’d had in his whole life, and if he was being honest, he felt better. Having emptiness come from somewhere other than his stomach was upsetting, but still better than before.

A knock on the door frightened them both, Harry scrambling back and trying to pull Niall toward his closet door.

“It’s me!” Zayn said, relieving them both. “I have your suit.”

“Come in.” Harry said, relaxing and crossing his legs again. “Niall’s here.”

“Oh, good. Involves you too.” Zayn opened the door and lead with Harry’s garment bag. “Your alterations have been approved. Scrutinized, but approved.”

“What did I do wrong?” Niall sighed, standing immediately and requesting the bag.

“Nothing. Catherine just doesn’t approve of the name you put in.” Zayn tapped at his suit jacket, referencing where Harry’s name had been sewn. “She removed your handiwork herself, she said.”

Niall grabbed the bag and laid it over the foot of Harry’s bed, unzipping it quickly. “Don’t worry, Harry, I can put it back in before tomorrow night.”

“You don’t have to. It’s not going to make a difference.” Harry shrugged. “But I appreciate it.”

“Are you sure?” Niall was already digging in his pockets, as if he had his sewing kit with him. Harry remembered then that he had his own sitting under his bed.

“Positive. I’ve got it.” Harry pushed himself up to his feet and felt his direct rebellion settle in his stomach. He smiled and it was real. He was fighting his guardians’ attempt to sabotage him into being given a lobotomy. For once, controlling parenting was backfiring on someone else. “Can I have a little time here alone? I have to study.” Harry tapped the booklet with his foot.

“Study?” Zayn turned his head to read the page of the book right side up. “Is that an invitation book?”

“Did you have one?” Niall asked.

“Yeah, had to.” Zayn nodded, shaking his head. “Had to study my English too beforehand.”

“English?” Harry echoed.

“My birthday dinner was over two hundred people and I’d only ever spoken Urdu at home. The Wigan finance and fashion industry doesn’t exactly have a broad linguistic stretch.” He rolled his eyes. “I was a bumbling _mess_ for the first hour and then I stopped caring.”

“Oh, just like that.” Harry scoffed.

“I met Martin there.” Zayn said. It was the first Harry had heard of it. “He, uh, thought I was speaking Portuguese and embarrassed himself, but he tried. Offered me a job on the spot afterward. Bit of an apology, I suppose.”

“You never told me that before.” Harry said. “Apology for what?” Zayn’s face tightened and he looked at Niall quickly. Niall stood with his jaw set and arms crossed.

“He wanted to have me marry one of his daughters.” Zayn said with a pressed smile. “But, of course, I had already signed off on being left Natural and, well, Liam and Penelope are uh, very different types of people.”

“Did he ask you to change over?”

“You know that’s not legal.” Zayn shook his head quickly. “The Bureau won’t assign someone against their own pairing. Even the way he is, Martin didn’t ask me that. I just showed him my Engraving and he offered me my current position. Went to work that Monday.”

Harry remembered sitting at his kitchen table, eating cereal and talking with Catherine, mentally referring to her as his mum at the time as well as out loud. She had bought him more textbooks to keep challenging him on his studies. Martin walked in the door, looking for one of his expense files, and had a young, nervous Zayn trailing behind him. Harry had stared down at the table, never having seen a stranger before. Zayn didn’t look like anyone in his family. His features were sharp and lean, his skin olive and tanned from being out in the sun far more than Harry had ever been. They spoke two words: a greeting and a farewell. Harry spent the next twenty-four hours wondering if he was going to go to Hell for it.

He learned very quickly that there were seven billion people in the world and only one him and one Louis. The chances of him walking in the door were very slim. It eased his anxiety for that afternoon, but only made his current panic worse.

Harry’s stomach felt heavy, sinking to his feet. There really were that many people on Earth and Harry had a select group come into his grasp in a fine bound book, and none were the one he had been searching for. What were thought to be minor obstacles were becoming Harry’s reality.

“Can I have a second? I want to shower and everything before we think about going out.” Harry said.

Both Niall and Zayn nodded, giving Harry the space, silence, and time he needed. Louis was going to be taken-- that much was slowly being processed-- and Harry’s full birth name was on its way to suffering the same fate. The least he could do was honor his mother one last time, before he was taken from God’s good graces and put into a role cut out for him-- a ragged hole, cut with a jagged dagger and bleeding in hot teardrops.

Harry sat and leaned over his bed, lifting his comforter to reach for his sewing kit. The case was covered in faded blue fabric, cresting waves printed over it and spaced equally across the lid. Harry swung the handle around and placed the case in his lap, lifting the lid and digging around for the loose end of his string and his favorite needle. His dress shirt was still draped over the end of his bed, unbuttoned and with the left tail opened toward him.

He pulled the white shirt onto his lap and threaded his needle. Somehow, despite his racing thoughts, his hand remained steady. He looped the plum colored floss through and knotted the end carefully. He had chalk and washable pens tucked under the first level of the sewing kit, but Harry could see his design clearly without the aid. He’d sewn his last name onto every shirt he owned since he’d learned how to do a circle stitch.

The work was tedious and long, but Harry took the hour and change to try and summon his favorite pair of eyes. He kept looking up at his mirror, hoping he’d blink and see the handsome and hopefully familiar look of his Betrothed smiling back at him. The distraction was unhelpful. Harry kept poking the tips of his fingers as he tried to thread the needle back up through the shirt. He luckily drew no blood, but his fingertips tingled as he tried to handle the fine thread and fabric.

The final product was slightly lopsided but still clear and legible. No one would see it regardless. The shirt tail would be tucked into Harry’s trousers the entire evening. The name would be hidden as it always was, but the identification would be there.

In case anything happened, Harry would always have something to remind him who he was. Well, who he used to be. Who Louis was supposed to know him to be.

Harry hung the shirt and suit back up on the hanger and placed it on his closet door. Before he forgot, he cranked the lock of his window and pushed the pane open. It was colder than usual for February. The cold air tightened the skin on Harry’s hands as he braced the window open, making sure he could escape later that night. He checked the wind, watching the tree branches sway steadily, before stepping back and going to the bathroom for a shower.

It had been over twenty-four hours since Harry had showered. He felt and _was_ disgusting. He needed a long, hot shower to remind himself of his own skin. He hadn’t had his usual ritual of being alone with Louis in a few days. Harry felt too guilty to run his hands over the inked skin. Typically, he stood under the water and let the beads of water tap against the skin, tickling the name he’d grown hopelessly enamored with. Instead, Harry kept his eyes and fingers from it. The intimacy felt naive and wrongly placed.

It felt like a stupid crush with the imposing introduction of Nicholas only a day away. Having hope felt like an absolute waste of Harry’s time, and doing so when he was the most vulnerable _and_ covered in hypo-allergenic soap felt even more so ridiculous.

To resist his routine, Harry’s newest focus became the uneven set of his hips. Trying to wash himself became an unnerving time of observation after both Zayn and Niall had noticed his changing body. Harry truthfully hadn’t taken any note to it; every time he was in front of the mirror, his eyes immediately tracked down to his Engraving. In his new sobering mindset, Harry had the attention to look at his body through more scrutinous eyes. His hips were less hidden and his ribs poked outward. Harry was pleased more than anything to at least see his well-fed, and possibly over fed, stomach rounding out his torso as he still tried to digest his hours long breakfast. Once he was married, he’d get to return to eating whatever he pleased and filling in the body he loved-- even if his favorite part was going to be cut out.

More than anything, as Harry wrapped a towel around his bony waist, he regretted that his guardians had starved his body and whittled it into something that might not have fit as perfectly against Louis.

While still in a towel, Harry walked past his open window. The cool air threatened to place icicles along the splitting ends of his wet hair. The street didn’t usually threaten to disrupt the silence of his room considering the house was a healthy distance from any passing traffic, but that afternoon there seemed to be a passing of horned commotion. Harry stood and squinted down through the Alder leaves, trying to clear out any words or frustrations. It just seemed to be general unrest. For some reason, it made Harry smile.

He tugged his towel closer to his body as he walked to his dresser. He squinted and felt around for his underwear, stepping into them hurriedly. Despite being alone, there was something hovering over him that made standing in his room naked feel incredibly indecent.

“Can we come in?” Niall had returned, Zayn most likely the other person included.

“No!” Harry called, scrambling for his clothes.

He had placed all his jewelry and his glasses back on his tall dresser. He pulled his St. William necklace over his head first, securing the clasp behind his neck and kissing the charm before placing it against his chest. The thin fabric band had been untied and tossed at the dresser, but apparently landed on the ground. Half crouching and fully panicked, Harry scrambled to tie it back around his Engraving. He hid Louis from sight in just a few twist of his fingers.

“Is everything okay?” Zayn knocked again.

“I’m not dressed.” Harry opened his closet and ran his fingers along the hangers to find a wrinkled button-up; he’d only need the collar to be pressed.

“Don’t let us rush you. We just wanted to ask you something.”

“Just give me one second.” He slipped the shirt over his shoulders, arms slipping into the sleeves and his Engraving double-hidden under the thin, patterned material. He grabbed a sweater stuffed into his bottom drawer and tugged it over himself, the thick cable-knit able to give his brooch something to stick into when the time came. He grabbed jeans, stepping into them as he walked to the door.

Zayn was standing against the wall, legs stretched out and supporting him against it. Niall stood in front of him, feet tapping the tips of Zayn’s shoes in a slow rhythm. They turned to look at Harry. He was still squinting and most likely looking a little frazzled from his rush.

“Hi. Sorry.” Harry sighed, clearing his throat. “I just got out of the shower. Come in, I’m almost finished.”

“You sure? We can run our errand and come back.” Niall offered, stopping midstep. “We just wanted to invite you with us.”

“Errand? Where are you going?”

“Down to the shop. Zayn needs to grab something and reminded me that you’ve never actually been there.” Niall said. “I think you’d like it.”

“It’s a tailor shop. What could be there to like?” Harry said, stuffing the tails of his shirt into his jeans. The name embroidered on his current shirt was blue. It was far more perfected and presentable.

“I just want to show you around before it's technically work.” Niall offered a bright smile as Zayn offered a hand to fix Harry's collar.

“Oh. Then, sure. Let me just grab my brooch then and we can leave.” Harry said.

He waited until Zayn's hands had lifted from flattening his collar before turning back to his dresser. He grabbed his glasses, slipping the lenses over his sleeve before placing them on his nose. Harry fiddled with the back of his brooch despite having improved vision. In his clumsiness, he pulled the sweater outward and made sure to not pin his shirt or chest by accident.

“Ready to get rid of that thing?” Niall asked. He reached over to lightly twist the brooch and let the light catch the scratched folds of metal.

“Words can’t describe.”

“Melting it down is probably the most liberating part. It was the most exciting mail I’ve ever gotten.” Niall said, nodding. Harry sighed. Must’ve be nice. “Wouldn’t you say, Zayn?”

“It was nice to get, yeah.” Zayn shrugged, nodding eventually. “I don’t have my ring anymore though. After two years, my parents asked that they hold it for me until I set my date.”

Harry lastly finished adjusting his jeans and grabbed his ratty suede jacket to throw over him. He shifted his shirt and sweater under the layers, making sure the brooch was well-spotted. Stepping around Zayn and his unsubtle clenched jaw, Harry grabbed his rolled bandanna from the corner of his dresser.

The red had faded to a soft rose color. The fabric was distressed from countless ties around Harry’s head when he tried to hide himself as he stood against the front gate at night. Even though his hair was still wet, he tied it at the nape of his neck.  The corner of fabric flopped down on the back of his head, all his hair tucked away and hidden.

“Your parents have it? Back in Bradford?” Niall asked, looking over Harry's head. “I can’t tell if they’re trying to get you to move or gently insult you.”

“Can we say both?” Zayn muttered. “They were starting to think that me moving out of Bradford was a terrible idea-- I mean, we aren’t supposed to leave our hometowns and all that shit. Mum’s been citing you as an example to come back home for months. I’ve been trying to convince them that we’re both happy here. Also I have a job. And Harry.” Zayn reached out to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “I can’t leave him.”

“I said you could.”

“And I said no.” Zayn said softly, kissing the top of his head. “Liam and I are picking houses soon and we’re figuring it out. But I’m not going back to Bradford no matter how much I want to. Not after Friday.”

It was touching to think Zayn wouldn’t relocate now that Harry was being partially killed from the soul-out, but the truth wasn’t softened by it. Harry was still going to be cut open the following evening.

“Are you ready to go?” Niall asked, patting Harry’s back. “We’ll go downstairs and wait for you by the gate?”

“Yeah. No problem.” Harry nodded.

Before leaving, both Zayn and Niall looked over Harry again; he probably looked a proper stranger with his magnifying glasses but without his puffed hair to compete with the frames. Niall smiled, probably out of pity, before shutting the door behind him. Harry grabbed a pair of shoes and slid his feet into them with a hard kick to the floor. One last hint he was in his room but an angry reminder he didn’t want to be bothered. He made sure he locked his door before crossing the room back to his open window.

The first step onto the roof was always nerve-wracking. The shingles never felt secure, like Harry was finally going to knock it loose and slide down the roof and into the bushes-- and turn his bones to mulch. Luckily, it was still firmly on the roof itself, Harry's heel only pivoting sharply before gaining friction again. The wind was picking up but still just gentle enough to leave Harry to think climbing into a tree was a good idea.

The bark peeled off under Harry's shoes and hands as he gripped and slid down the first branch. It hovered over the roof, making Harry scale backward like a kind of animal. Once against the trunk, he braced his back against it and then slowly angled around to the second sturdiest branch. It extended outward in the opposite direction: away from the house. The sun wasn't entirely out of sight, but the bright reminders just hovering over the horizon were blinding. All details not immediately under Harry's nose were dissolved into a dark silhouette.

Once at the strongest point of the second branch, Harry crouched and grabbed the tree under his feet. They slipped out from underneath him slowly. He hung from the branch, swaying gently, until dropping down with a jostling fall to the ground.

A quiet groan escaped him as he rolled onto his back; it was always a long way down. He laid in the bare underbrush by the Alder and listened for any movement in open windows or pacing adoptive parents. Harry was thankful every time he tried to escape that his guardians weren’t rich enough-- or at least delusional enough-- to have guards around the house. Harry sat up, brushed himself off, and walked quickly along the side of the house to the gate.

Zayn was leaning against it, like he had already been there a while. His arms were crossed and a lit cigarette rested between his fingers. Niall stood beside him, kindly waving away the offer of a smoke. They stood directly beside one of the columns supporting the gate lights. They were making an appearance of nonchalance even though no one from the house could see them properly anyhow. They seemed to have been doing this in their own way just as long as Harry.

“Locked my door behind me. Let’s go.” Harry said, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Niall pushed the gate door open, Zayn stumbling and nearly tripping. He put the cigarette out on the column and tried to flick the butt at Niall with an exaggerated grimace. It occured to Harry that Zayn and Niall had lives that expanded beyond the Clarke Estate’s four walls, and beyond Harry. They were friends, maybe best friends, all on their own.

They’d introduced themselves as complete strangers and co-workers and were now playful and endearing. They were an example of what leaving his home and losing his brooch would promise Harry: friendships, kind and guiding.

Sunday mornings looked far different than Thursday evenings. Harry kept his eyes fixed firmly on the sidewalk passing under his feet once they reached the street. Stepping off the estate property felt like stepping off the edge of a cliff. Granted, Harry knew the world was safe and he was in good hands, but he wasn’t sure what really was beyond the sturdy safety of home-- of _land_.

“Can I borrow your light again? I regret putting my cig out already.” Zayn said, holding his hand out past Harry toward Niall.

“Why don’t you just keep it? I don’t need it for much anymore.” Niall slapped a metal lighter into Zayn’s hand. It was silver, an engraved rose resting over the two halves. Harry watched the design pass in front of him with curiosity. He’d never noticed how beautiful roses were, layered and spinning outward in a bloom. He memorized the shape as quickly as he could; he’d sketch it out for his next embroidery project.

Harry would need something to pass the time as he sat still and bored at the front desk of the shop downtown. He could only imagine how vast and ridiculous it was. It would be one more stage for Harry to put on the best act of his career. He’d probably meet Nicholas for the first time sitting at his desk or trying to pin a new lapel fabric to a jacket. The shop would be a new cage for him. It felt like freedom since it was finally beyond the estate, but everything happening inside was measured-- literally.

Harry sucked in air slowly, echoing Zayn’s own inhale from his cigarette, before exhaling into the chilled evening air. Everything in him was thrumming and churning into a boiling mess, Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if the cloud from his parted lips was smoke.

The passing people on the sidewalk paid no attention to Harry and smiled at Zayn and Niall with quiet greetings of familiarity and hospitality. Harry’s brooch averted all eyes before they could even meet his own. No one even seemed to notice him. Maybe his brooch was making him even more noticeable.

Zayn came to a stop in front of a green door, placing a hand out to stop harry from walking past them. Harry looked up and craned his head back to read the awning: Clarke and Sons Tailoring Co.

“Sons.” Harry read. “That seems preemptive.”

“Even more so when Martin kept having daughters.” Niall said with a quiet laugh. “You were their last chance at not lying to the entire town.”

“I’m so grateful.” Harry sighed, following Zayn as he opened the door.

Harry felt along the wall for the light switch, brightening the room in a short flash. Everything was a dark, comforting yet claustrophobic oak or charcoal. Fabric swatches and completed suits hung along the walls. In the center of the room was a three panel mirror with a small platform. Directly by the door was a desk covered by a large calendar and unorganized papers. Harry didn’t even have to come into the shop to know that it was the secretary's desk; it was his desk. In the back was another desk, a bit farther from the actual foyer area of the store. It had a sewing machine resting on top and a garment bag hanging over the back of the chair.

It was small, which was expected. The entire town only ever had up to three thousand people, but somehow Harry expected Martin to be clothing the entire northern end of the island.

“This is it?” Harry asked. “Some silk ties and--and a shitty desk job?” Where was everything he was sacrificing Louis for?

“This is it.” Niall walked toward the desk in the back, immediately pulling out the desk drawer underneath. He rifled through, metal stitch slicers and needles gently clattering inside. “Glorious, isn’t it?”

“Better than being inside the estate, I guess.” Harry admitted.

“It’s a pretty quiet place, even during the busy wedding season.” Niall added, still digging. “You’ll be able to get your work done-- study, read, stitch. You’ll have enough time.”

“If you spend your time right, you can maybe start working with me.” Zayn suggested with a noncommittal shrug.

The idea unsettled Harry. It seemed wrong for an asset to work with the family’s finances. He’d most likely have to sift through his own paperwork at some point. He’d be able to track the paper trail that took Harry’s name and whittled it down to a price. And for what? What was the point that made his guardians change their minds and imprison the rest of his days?

“He’s going to become a tailor, Zayn. You can’t change his talent. He’s a perfect replacement for me.”

“You don’t think you’ve been replaced?” Zayn laughed, pulling a few folded pages from the desk drawer. He grumbled about needing originals, before looking back up at Niall.

“What? Lucille and Brian? That’s rich.” Niall said, rolling his eyes. “They couldn’t rip a blouse let alone mend one.”

“Competitive are we?” Harry found Niall’s sharp retort out of character but all the more amusing.

“I might have moved, but I was the best thing Martin ever hired.” Niall said with a knowing expression. “Except for you of course.”

“We’ll see.” Harry said, sighing at the thought. “I haven’t done any work yet.”

“You’ll have the chance soon.” Zayn scanned the papers quickly and stuffed them into his pocket. “You’ve got Brian’s work on Monday. Nameless appointment, so that probably means it’s just a last fitting. Easy stuff.” Harry tried to let Zayn’s nonchalance, and Niall’s confirming nod, comfort him.

They were too quickly looking to Harry’s days after his clearing. There wasn’t anything ordinary or casual about the severing of soulmates. They loved him, and Harry loved them more than he was sure he’d ever be capable of loving anyone else, but they’d never understand. Both Niall and Zayn were left in His Image. They’d read the stories, and Niall had gone to church just as Harry had, but they never had to reap what the fear and blasphemy had planted.

The Monday appointment might have been nameless, but Harry wouldn’t have the chance-- walking into work with a split heart and a new name forced under his skin.

“I’ll get there if I get there.”

If he ever did. Unlike Niall and Zayn, Harry still knew it was a looming “if’. There were so many risks piling against Harry that threatened his chances of even making it out of his clearing with his memories in tact.

“Clarke and Sons” wasn’t just preemptive. It felt like a curse.

* * *

The pub was further away than from the shop to the estate. On this walk, Harry had the luxury of looking up at the rising stars. He’d never stood under them when they were so bright. It was like a blanket resting over his eyes; everything around him dropped away and he thought he could reach out and rope it in to him. To all the fear he had of being in such an open space, and the desire he had to be curled up in his bed again, Harry could simply use the stars to wrap around his shoulders and comfort him.

“Did you ever get to study astrology?” Niall asked, placing his hand on Harry’s back. Niall guided Harry and let him walk with his neck bent uncomfortably backward.

“No. Never knew they were this beautiful.” Harry admitted. “Thought they were just like, pinpricks, you know?”

Niall’s hand moved to his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. “You’re going to love being out of that house.”

“I know.” Harry nodded and lowered his eyes. Freedom had a strange price.

The Golden Ink was a building that appeared to be an afterthought in the street shop lineup. It looked like a regular shopfront had tried to wedge itself between two other average, purely daytime-operational places: a cobbler and a barber shop. The outside was brick, contrasting with the wood paneling lining the adjoining buildings. There was one window on the right side, painted a dark teal blue and chipping along the edge. Harry ran his hand along the pane as they reached the door.

The crowd was only about thirty people, but it covered spots of the floor, bar, and tables easily. Zayn craned his neck and searched the faces as he unbuttoned his coat.

“He said he’d meet me in the middle. Let’s grab a table.” Zayn waved them into the crowd. Harry followed blindly, terrified by the amount of faces and names he didn’t know, but not wanting to be left behind.

Zayn stopped at a standing table, the top coming up just under Harry’s elbow. He stood awkwardly beside it, watching as Niall and Zayn began removing their winter garb and placing it on one of the two barstools pushed under the table. Harry realized he had to do the same.

“Harry, can I get you a pint? Is that alright?” Niall was already signaling to the bartender what they wanted. He stopped with a finger raised to her.

“I have no idea what that really means. So, sure. Whatever you think.” Harry shrugged. Niall nodded and lifted his finger more confidently.

He unfastened the three functioning buttons of his jacket and tossed it on top of Zayn’s. He tugged on his sweater and readjusted his brooch anxiously. There wasn’t anyone looking at him to notice it, but it was clear he was the only person wearing one.

“I don’t see him.” Zayn muttered, still scanning the room. “I told him we were all here, so he knows to look for a group.”

“It’s still early. He’s probably just a little late.” Niall waved Zayn down gently.

It was comforting to see someone as nervous as Harry; it was also entirely possible that the reasons were the same as well. Zayn shifted in the shuffling of the crowd around him, sipping his beer the moment it was placed in his hands. Zayn was raised as Harry had been, homeschooled in the same shrinking walls of his childhood home. In Zayn’s case though, he was able to briefly leave home to study higher education after he turned nineteen. He was up to seven years of practice. Good to know it still didn’t come naturally to any one of them-- except maybe Niall.

“Hey, you.”

They were all startled by a kind voice wrapping around them. Harry turned and saw a man standing behind Zayn, a knowing smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes and lighting up his face. He was older than Zayn, maybe. His short, close beard was full and unspotted. He didn’t have a brooch or a travel badge, leaving Niall and Harry to look embarrassingly out of place. His gray, speckled shirt was rolled at the sleeves, Zayn’s name scribed under the crease of his elbow. The script was the same as Zayn's and Niall's, and even Harry's-- at least for the next twenty hours.

“There you are, Liam!” Zayn said, visibly relaxing. His hand reached and held the small of Liam’s back. “I was beginning to think you were standing me up.”

“And miss the chance to meet you out of the house for once? Not a fucking chance.” He leaned in and kissed Zayn quickly. The anxiety twisting Zayn’s kind features dissolved as he smiled at Liam. “Now, who do we have here?”

“Yes, ‘course! Niall, this is Liam. Liam, an old coworker of mine, Niall.” Zayn introduced.

“Pleasure.” Niall said, shaking Liam’s hand. There was a calm understanding and maturity to them. They had gotten used to introducing themselves to others. The loud chatter of the bar was underwhelming to them, both able to focus on one another without issue. Harry was struggling.

“And who's sunshine over here?” Harry turned his head and tried to refocus his attention and anxieties and look back toward the group.

“Liam, baby, you’ve heard about Harry. Harry, this is Liam.” Zayn motioned for them to shake hands, helping him in the process. Harry reached forward awkwardly, the contact of new hands still strange. Two decades out of practice.

“I’ve heard so much, Harry. It’s a pleasure.” Liam gave a firm handshake, his eyes warm and smile charming. Harry wasn’t sure if every time he met someone he was supposed to feel incredibly flattered. No one had ever looked him in the eyes so intently. “Zayn talks so highly of you.”

“I’m his boss’ adopted kid.” Harry said flatly, unsure how to take the compliment. “Not sure why. I’m not really all that exciting.”

“Bullshit. He tells me you’re really great at your uh, stitching, is it?” Liam turned to Zayn and let his voice drop to a soft whisper. Harry could practically see the magnetism, the innate need to get closer. Left in God's Image but loved only in each other's eyes.

Zayn placed his hand on Liam’s shoulder and smiled. “Embroidery. Look, he’s fantastic-- may I, H?” Zayn’s long fingers delicately pointed at the hem of Harry’s shirt sticking out under his sweater. Harry pulled his sweater up, complying to Zayn if only to have the conversation continue without his verbal input. Zayn pulled his embroidered last name out as far as the fabric stretched, looking at Liam with a smile. “Free hand. The kid is incredible.”

“He’s helping up with our wedding, right?” Liam asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not asking him to do that-- he’s a very busy young man.” Zayn said. Harry tugged his sweater down as the conversation took off without him. He wasn’t sure how to keep up. He felt like he was watching it all through a window, speaking but his breath fogging up and leaving him blind.

“Oii, Love. Trying to flash us all? Got one more shirt.” The voice was unfamiliar, coming from behind both Liam and Zayn, but skimming by both of them to land seemingly solely on Harry. He emerged as Harry tried to stuff his shirt back into his jeans-- while also trying not to hike the sweater up again and elicit any more commentary. He fiddled with his golden brooch, as if making it more obvious to the stranger, but it went ignored. He only stepped closer.

Harry was younger than the man, but it was obvious that Harry was younger than just about everyone in the pub. But Harry was definitely taller. The stranger stood to Liam’s side, keeping their heights seemingly equal through the distance. His hair was mused and unkempt, but in a way that seemed to match the strategically torn knees of his jeans and wrongly sized large flannel shirt. In the dim light Harry had felt claustrophobic, but despite an addition of a new person, the feeling subsided in order to make room for a sudden flash of dizziness. The floor seemed to ripple under him, just for a moment.

He moved his pint farther away.

“Oh, come on, Love. It’s just a joke.” The man said, watching Harry grimace as he struggled with his shirt. His embroidery stuck out over his left pocket, Harry’s rings getting caught on the waistband of his pants as he tried to tuck his shirt in. “What did you do to this boy?”

“Tommo, would you shove it? It’s his last day before death row.” Liam laughed but he sounded empty. They all knew it wasn’t much of a joke. “This is the Clarke boy.”

“Clarke boy?” The man echoed. Harry tried to trace _Tommo_ back to a full name, but couldn’t land it before he spoke again. “What’s with this then?” He reached forward and grabbed at Harry’s shirt, pulling the embroidery out for their attention again. “Styles?”

“Please don’t touch that.” Harry muttered, eyes lowered to his own hands. He pushed the man away quickly. His hands felt weightless.

“He speaks.”

“Lay off, alright?” Zayn reached over and pushed his shoulder. “He’s green. Give him some space.”

“Alright. Alright. Sorry. Let me do it properly.” The man cleared his throat and held out his hand to Harry. “Name’s Tom. Well, Tomlinson, but that’s quite a’bit’a mouthful, huh?”

“T-Tomlinson is your first name?” Harry wasn’t sure if it was a rude question. It was definitely a fair one in Harry’s opinion. If he was rude, everyone humored him.

“No. I just don’t go by my first name anymore.” Tomlinson shrugged.

“Why not?” Harry asked. There wasn’t any way he was adopted too, or at least had a horrible middle name overlapping his first.

“Can’t find me if I don’t respond, eh?” Tomlinson winked. Harry blinked at him, staring and hoping his confusion wouldn’t need to be spoken.

“Still running?” Liam said before sipping from his beer bottle. “Thought it’d been a while, Tommo, give yourself a rest.”

“Donny raises real sly criminals, Payno, I told you.” Tomlinson slapped Liam on the back and reached for his beer. He pulled it away from his mouth before it had been evened, nearly spilling beer down the front of Liam’s shirt.

“Payno?” Zayn repeated. Harry watched Tomlinson take a long, almost teasing sip from the bottle.

“Last names were accustomary for a while.” Liam said defensively.

“Survival, mate.” Tomlinson corrected, nodding his head before taking another sip.

While Harry was trying to catch onto the obvious story unfolding between their words, his attention was absorbed in the grip Tomlinson had on Liam’s bottle. He held it tightly with his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger while his other two fingers were kept straight, bent but not tight. As he handed the bottle back to Liam-- or had it taken from him rather-- his hand relaxed, his ring and pinky finger keeping their shape for a moment longer. The effort to change their shape was more than the other three. As Tomlinson placed his hand against his chest, laughing at a snap from Liam, Harry noticed a twisting stream of pale, white skin running down his hand and over his last two fingers. The skin was taut and wrinkled unnaturally as Tomlinson’s hands moved.

“What you staring at, Love?” Tomlinson asked, snapping his fingers in front of Harry’s eyes.

“What happened to your hand?” Harry blurted. Zayn reached out to smack his arm, scolding him with a hushed hiss. Niall lifted his bottle to his lips slowly, silencing his own commentary. “S-Sorry! That was rude, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It’s alright.” Tomlinson said, nudging Liam’s side again. “Always this honest, Love?”

“He’s never been outside the house before today.” Zayn answered, grabbing Harry’s arm and tugging him closer to his side, as if it would silence him.

“Oh, so just curious?” Tomlinson laughed with a bright smile. “Fair, I’ll play.” He held his hand out to Harry, letting him look at the rippled skin. It was scar tissue, no doubt, but it wasn’t skin that had been cut or scraped. The scar was fluid, shaping and bending around the top of Tomlinson’s hand to run off his fingers.

“What happened?” Harry asked, learned politeness fading despite Zayn’s exasperated choking.

“Acid Clearing.” Tomlinson said with a chipper click of his tongue. He flexed his fingers, the skin trying to remain flat, reluctant to stretch. “Sure you’ve heard of those.”

“No?”

“Tommo, you’re going to give the kid a heart attack.” Liam cut in, pushing his side. “Don’t say anything else and go back to getting tabled somewhere else.”

“The boy asked, didn’t he?”

“The boy is a _child_.” Zayn argued, his tone sharp and undercutting Harry before he could defend himself.

“W-What _are_ they?” Harry asked indignantly, waving his hands at them. He looked to Niall first, but was handed further silence.

“He lives near Le Havre-- it’s a bit different over there.” Liam said, as if that was sufficient in some way. Harry blinked at him. “France.”

“I know where it is.” Harry snapped. “I just don’t see how that answers my question.”

“Testy when you’re confused, huh?” Tomlinson said with a chuckle. “I’m just on… a bit of a vacation from France at the moment. Came back to Donny… spent a bit in London too-- Still don’t speak a lick of French by the way, Payno. Bloody shit at it.”

“We know.” Liam said, shaking his head.

“Where’s your travel badge?” All people not in their home country that hadn’t gotten a permanent residence had to wear a travel badge to ensure they were where God and the Bureau thought they were meant to be. “How are you just… walking around without it?”

“I’ll let you answer that on your own.” Tomlinson said, squinting his eyes and nodding at Harry. “You’re a smart one. You’ve got a brain.”

“You can’t do that.” Harry said dumbly. The thought had never actually occurred to him.

Tomlinson looked at Harry, his thin face pulled tight in amusement. “Your parents made you really uptight, didn’t they?” Beside him, Liam covered his mouth as he laughed and Zayn pressed his lips together, shaking his head in disbelief. Harry sputtered, agreement sticking in his throat as he processed the insinuation of Tomlinson’s statement. “You don’t have to do everything they tell you, Love.” His tone softened as he reached forward for his sweater.

His right hand grabbed at his brooch, two fingers slipping under to pull it up from the fabric while his left hand worked at unfastening it. His thumb and pointer finger flipped the small cover on the fastener while the other three fingers remained splayed outward. Harry looked at the scar tissue just under his nose: _Acid Clearing_. The meandering scar tissue made sense, like the bends of a river. Harry couldn’t think of a crime deserving of such punishment. Harry couldn’t look at Tomlinson’s mischievous features and assume he was capable of anything other than planting his tongue firmly in cheek- or maybe foot in mouth.

Tomlinson slipped the brooch back out of his sweater and held it out to him, balanced on the tips of his three stable fingers.

“Here, Love. Join the rest of us for a bit.”

“C-Can I do that?” Harry asked, turning to Zayn.

“We won’t tell anyone a damn thing.” Niall replied instead, taking Liam’s beer bottle and taking the last sip. He lifted a finger and flagged down the bartender for four bottles. “I seem to lose my attention to detail after a few swigs.”

“You’ll have a nice time. Breathe, Love. We're not gonna hurt you.” Tomlinson said, lowering his hand to lift the other and pat Harry on the shoulder. He pocketed the brooch. “Tip one back and relax.”

“You mean drinking.”

“I do.” Tomlinson laughed warmly, his eyes squinting with his raised cheeks. “Come on. You drink, I drink.”

“What?” Harry tried to look elsewhere on Tomlinson’s face. Tried to focus.

“I can’t outdrink the man of honor.” He poked Harry’s chest lightly, where his brooch had been. “Second one’s calling you, Love.”

“I can get another one?” Harry wasn’t sure if that was allowed. He had barely finished his first.

“Sure. Get it yourself.” Zayn thumbed over to the bartender, offering him a supportive thumbs up after. “Just take the empty pint and ask for another.”

“Are you sure?”

“You’re going to be a grown man in a few hours. Order yourself a drink.” Liam said, slapping Harry on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”

“O-Okay.” Harry grabbed his glass and walked through Zayn and Niall toward the bartender. He heard Tomlinson call after him, probably trying to rile him up, but Harry kept his eyes focused and his ears straining to hear his own thoughts.

The room felt packed. It wasn’t really, but Harry could barely feel the floor beneath his feet. He thought the crowd was carrying him along, bumping and shoving him as they moved to music Harry couldn’t hear. Harry pressed the glass to his chest as he shouldered through, arriving at the bar looking more frightened than drunk.

“Can I help you?” The woman behind the bar leaned forward, placing both hands on the bar. “Need another, hon?”

“I--I, uh…” Harry looked down at the glass and the lasting smears of white foam. The bitter smell of beer still wafted up to him, making his seasick stomach lurch like a cresting wave. “Can I actually just get some water?”

“Water?” She repeated, looking him up and down. She grinned and held up a hand for the glass. “Absolutely, hon. Don’t want you feeling hungover for your party.”

“W-What? How do you-- do _we_ \--” Harry didn’t recognize her. There was no way she knew him.

“You look scared to death and beer is the strongest thing you’ve had so far. Someone’s turning twenty.” She lowered the glass under the bar as she spoke, lowering her eyes to work but still somehow making Harry feel heavily observed and monitored. “I’ve seen your picture in the papers, Eddie.”

“In the papers?” Harry found the best conversation tactic with strangers was to repeat everything they said. The person already thought their own thoughts were important enough to say and hear once, so hearing it a second time was only further flattery.

“All of Aspull has been waiting to see your Reveal. We never thought we’d see a male Clarke heir.” She said. “Thank God you came along.”

“I’m adopted.” Harry said suddenly. What little identity he had was important to him. “I’m not their son.”

The woman lifted the pint glass, cleaned and filled with water. “Of course you aren’t. No Clarke child would have eyes like yours. Tiny emeralds-- small treasure for us all.”

“T-Thank you.”

Harry took the glass and pulled it back to his chest. It was already splashing on him, but he backed away quickly to get back to his table. Niall had turned to Liam, placing a hand on his shoulder as he spoke. Zayn was looking between them with a pleased smile. Tomlinson was gone, his voice heard farther down the bar. Harry was relieved, sighing as he placed his glass back down on the table and propping an elbow on it.

“Already tapping out for a water?” Zayn said through Niall and Liam’s conversation.

“I don’t want to drink anything else.” Harry said firmly. “Catherine will know.”

“She won’t, but if you really don’t want one, okay.” Zayn nodded. “Do you want to go home instead?”

“No. No I’m fine.” Harry said, lifting his pint. “I think I can handle a bit more.”

He was on borrowed time, but Harry was sure he could steal a few extra minutes. He leaned against the tall table and sipped his water slowly. He was suddenly parched.

Niall spoke to Liam easily, comfortable already with the stranger. He was animated, his arm moving around and conveying more than his words did. Zayn watched Niall with a laugh, leaning in against Liam. Without looking away from Niall, Liam wrapped his arm around Zayn’s waist and answered his quiet affection.

It felt voyeuristic to watch them, to see two people in love. Harry had only ever thought of it in hazy hopes all on his own. He’d never seen it at home. Love was a concept he wholeheartedly wanted to believe, but had never seen a day in his life.

If there had been any love in his house, there might have been actual empathy in adopting Harry. He would’ve been taken from Holmes Chapel in order to be saved from having to be married off to secure money for his ill mother, rest her soul. It was always ideal to have your children be kept in His Image. No one planned to clear a child. No one held a defenseless baby in their arms and decided that one day, when they were old enough to understand, but unable to change their fate, they’d take their entire future from them and paste a new Betrothed into their life.

No one was _supposed_ to, at least. But Harry was the sacrificial chess piece of his guardian’s faux goodwill. He wouldn’t feel a thing and barely knew what was happening, but he’d standing in his isolated space waiting to be taken off the board. Or at least out of the damn papers.

“Hey, Zayn?” Harry asked across the conversation. His eyes were still unfocused over the hand on Zayn’s waist; Harry forced them up to his bright and attentive eyes. “Have you seen me in any of the papers?”

“What do you mean?” His avoidance said all Harry was thinking.

“Why is my photo in the papers? The bartender recognized me.” Harry said. Niall had stopped talking to look at Zayn, eyebrows lifted and waiting to see his response.

“It’s just the announcement of your Reveal. It’s not typical for every family, but for those being cleared… It’s an announcement of the business deal.” At least he was being honest.

“Do a lot of people pay attention to them?”

“No. Not that many. You aren’t the Queen, H.” Zayn shook his head and laughed.

“I really fucking hope not.” Harry mumbled, lifting his pint again.

“From Rotherham?” Liam reached over and tapped one of Harry’s rings with his beer bottle. His conversation with Niall ending just as Zayn started laughing. Harry pulled his hand back to stare at his topaz ring, ending the silence with a shrug. He wasn’t sure what Liam meant, but if Martin had a similar one, it was entirely plausible it was a geographic and statused ring.

“It might be.”

“Don’t let Tommo see that-- scrap you right here.” Liam winked, lifting his bottle in a fake toast.

“Hm, pleasant.” Harry couldn’t decide what he thought of Tomlinson-- _Tommo_. He wasn’t like the four of them, or three seeing how Liam and Zayn fit so well together. “How do you know Tomlinson?” Harry asked Liam just as he swallowed another gulp of water. He was already feeling wobbly, but somehow he thought drinking more water would put his mind at ease.

“We were in a group together.”

“Group?”

“Eh, stupid teenager shit.” Liam said, waving the excitement away from Harry’s face. “Thought we could fight the Bureau. Joined this little rebellious group. We went by different names and said we were from different towns to try and offset the Bureau’s meddling.”

“What about God?” Harry said. He wasn’t sure if he was a good conversationalist, but at least everyone was talking. Or looking to start having a stroke from Harry’s bluntness.

“We figured that if someone really was destined to find us, they would.” Liam placed a hand on Zayn’s chest and leaned into his side. “I was actually on my way _to_ Bradford when I ran into him at the train station. Looking quite dejected at a train ticket home, might I add.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“Jesus, Harry. Enough with the interrogation. This isn’t what people discuss when they’re drunk.” Zayn said sharply.

“But I’m not drunk.”

“Harry--”

“It’s okay.” Liam laughed and rubbed back and forth on Zayn’s chest slowly. “Tommo’s got the right idea; he’s curious and harmless. I’ll play along.”

“I only ask because I know Zayn doesn’t.” Harry thought explaining his thought process would make it better. But there was also a chance that if he _had_ to explain it, he shouldn’t have said it.

“It’s different, right, baby?”

“Yeah, I was just raised different.” Zayn answered. He was still slightly peeved, but looking at Liam loosened his expression and his lips.

“But me and Tommo were more… well, _less_ interested in all of it. We’d read some books, back when we were fifteen or something crazy like that, about people that didn’t even have soulmates. They just did whatever they wanted. They fell in love on their own-- multiple times too.”

“Really? People can fall in love without… without, uh…” Harry wasn’t even sure what it was that drove soulmates together. Familiarity? Recognition from some deep part of their heart unable to fully explain itself to their brain? Dumb fucking luck? “ _That_?”

“Yeah. It’s all stuff we used to read about and take to heart. Went out dating and shit like that.” Liam shrugged. Harry had never heard of the word, and wasn’t sure if it was entirely appropriate to ask what it meant. He didn’t want to be graphic at the table, no matter where it was. “But things have changed. I’ve changed. I grew out of wanting to fight that stuff. Some people don’t.”

“Tomlinson?”

“N-No.” Liam stuttered and shook his head quickly. “He’s different. He grew out of it in a different way. He, uh, he hit a hard truth after a few years and he… he’s been trying to smooth things out. The group left him when, uh...”

“The Bureau cleared him?” Harry could think only of the rippling scars.

“No.” Liam said, clear but final. “That’s not my story to tell.”

Harry had put enough together to know that that _also_ meant to not ask Tomlinson himself. It was meant to be left unsaid. The curiosity was burning, but Harry wasn’t a stranger to secrets. That was the one thing he had introduced himself to, and became familiar with, a very long time ago.

As silence grew between the four of them, a rumble started in the surrounding crowds. The excitement was lost on them, but still tried to pull them in. Niall put his glass down and nudged Harry to do the same. Harry tried to crane and see what was happening, but it was all a mess of excited shouting and stumbling movement. He inched closer out of nosy instinct and was immediately rammed into.

One shoulder hit Harry in the chest, nearly winding him, and another made contact with his spine. He was more frail than he ever had been, feeling the push and impending bruise run deeper than usual. Harry wished he had the weighted blanket of the stars draped over him again. The jostling sucked him in, Harry just trying to avoid touching other people.

The air around him was hot, heavy, and slick. His hands ran cold, like his brain was removing sensation from his extremities in order to try and wrangle the most control on his racing heartbeat and heavy breathing.

“Hey-- Hey! Zayn!” Harry put his arm up and tried to wave the group down. “Hey!” The crowd mistook his fear for excitement and bumpered him closer to the source of the commotion: gambling on a game of darts that looked one bad aim away from being deadly.

Harry was used to living in confined areas and limited spaces, but the crowd around him felt invasive. Harry shouldered through the crowd, his hands finding the door before he knew he had finally reached the edge of the room. There could have been the entire pub calling after him, but Harry’s hearing had thinned out to a high pitch ringing, only overpowered by the sound of his own heartbeat.

The cold air burst across Harry’s face as he stumbled out onto the sidewalk. It was uncomfortably cold outside but it was open and free. There wasn’t anyone looking him in the eye and trying to introduce themselves-- except for the man beside him.

“You alright, Styles?” Tomlinson was leaning up against the pub, hands stuck firmly in his jacket pockets. He gave a strange side-wave with his elbow.

“Fine. There’s just… a lot of people in there.” Harry panted. He ran a hand through his hair and fixed his bandanna. He was sweating so much he didn’t entirely need his coat in the sudden freezing temperature.

“Why don’t you stay out here for a little with me.” Tomlinson slipped one hand out to slap the brick wall. “I’ll let you bum one off me.”

“Excuse me?”

Tom pulled his other hand out of his pocket and held a thin tin case. It was engraved with the outline of a queen of hearts. He squeezed the side and the lid popped up, his thumb pushing to swing it open. A row of four neatly rolled cigarettes presented themselves.

“Bum a smoke.”

“Oh.” Harry blinked. It all seemed unknowingly familiar. “I don’t smoke.”

“Want to try?” Tomlinson picked up a cigarette and held it out to Harry. “No pressure of course.”

“Uh, I think I’d rather not.” Harry shrugged. “I don’t want the smell to follow me home.” Showing up with the thin grip of tobacco on his clothes would have him grounded for a week. Although, punishments didn’t frighten him as much as his impending surgery. “Actually, on second thought--”

“No no no. You turned me down.” Tomlinson said, yanking the tin back. “You don’t want to.”

“I do!”

“You don’t. I heard you the first time. You don’t have to lie.” Tomlinson tucked the cigarette between his lips, pinching the filter as he smirked.

“Hey! Come on, don’t be a dick!” Harry said, reaching for the cigarette. Tomlinson ducked his head away, pushing at Harry’s hand.

“Your parents hear you talk like that? I better call the priest!”

“Shove it and give me the cigarette.” Harry started laughing but he wasn’t sure why. There was joy growing in him from an unknown memory.

“I can’t. Your purity is important for your surgery, Styles. Can’t have you searing your brain on both sides.” Tomlinson removed the cigarette from his lips and poked the end against Harry’s chest.

“I’ve already broken it with a drink. It’s not going to matter. It’s all bullshit anyway.” Harry remembered Zayn’s confidence and blatant atheism during his suit fitting. “You don’t believe in what the Bureau tells you.”

“I don’t believe in what the Bureau tells the Bible to tell me, no. I don’t.” Tomlinson placed the cigarette between his lips, holding it momentarily with his teeth. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small book of matches. “But I’m still not going to force you to smoke with me. That’d be too cruel.” He lit his cigarette slowly, the end catching as he took a deep inhale. The exhale sounded therapeutic.

“Come on! I said yes!”

Tomlinson moved his cigarette to the corner of his mouth to exhale smoke slowly, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “I don’t care what you want, I just wanted to take your mind off your impending anxiety attack. Worked, didn’t it?”

“I-- well,” Harry wasn’t sure why he detested the help. Why did a sudden stranger, a rude stranger at that, understand his emotions better than he did? He didn’t enjoy being mocked for being unobservant and shy. “I don’t care why you did it, I want to try!”

“I won’t hand it to you.” Tomlinson said. Harry was sure, despite his slow learning, that the conversation wasn’t final; it was a challenge.

“Give me that!”

Harry laughed loudly and reached for Tomlinson’s jacket. He gripped Tomlinson’s lapels with one hand and fumbled for the cigarette with the other. Tomlinson craned his neck back to try and stop Harry, but he was pressed against the wall. Harry wasn’t sure of his own strength.

“Alright, alright!” Tomlinson agreed with a laugh. “Brutal, aren’t you, Curly?”

Harry took the cigarette carefully in his fingers, holding it at first like he was reading the color name of a crayon. He adjusted it to rest it between his two fingers, like he’d seen in movies before. It burned slowly, a small coil rising up in front of him. The end was slightly damp as it hovered by Harry’s mouth.

“Come on. You smoke, I smoke.”

“Uh, how do I do it?” Harry said dumbly, blinking. Tomlinson’s laugh was choppy; genuine amusement sounding like a mocking but repetitive _Ha. Ha. Ha._

“Alright so put it between your lips, just enough to breathe with it. Then, pull with your mouth.”

“Pull?” Harry repeated again. It sounded far less impressive when speaking to Tomlinson. He just sounded stupid.

“Yeah, inhale with just your mouth.”

“This sounds… weird.” Harry wasn’t sure what it was reminding him of, but his skin was beginning to feel jittery. Tomlinson hadn’t moved from the wall, but he felt closer to Harry than all the crowding strangers before.

“I’m not asking you to blow it, Curly. Just take a drag.”

“Wait… Is it pull or blow? Or drag?” Harry asked, taking the cigarette out of his mouth again. “I’m so confused.”

“Here.” Tomlinson placed his hand on Harry’s chest. “Inhale shallow until I tell you to take a deep breath from here.” He patted Harry’s chest. “Go.”

Harry inhaled slowly and shortly, the hot air from the cigarette feeling like sand sticking to the back of his throat. It smelled light and tingled the inside of his nose, like menthol rub he used to have as a kid. Tomlinson watched Harry with slow agreement, nodding as Harry pressed his lips around the cigarette. Finally, he patted Harry’s chest and placed another hand on his back, as if helping him inhale fully. It tasted the way it smelled: bitter and stale, while still hitting high in his lungs. The air burned and he suddenly started coughing. It was like his lungs didn’t even want the full inhale to swirl around while he paused for another breath. They sent it out in a strong, painful cough of smoke.

“Easy, Styles. Easy.” Tomlinson laughed, still holding him by his chest and back.

As he coughed, he felt lightheaded. His vision went white and Harry thought for a brief moment he’d gone blind; God had punished him for one final brush with sin. Luckily, within a few moments, Harry was able to blink back the smug, humored expression of Liam’s pub friend.

“That’s terrible.” Harry said, handing him the cigarette. “I hate that.”

“Expected as much. It’s a nasty habit.”

“Why do you do it then?” Harry shot back, still trying to clear his lungs of embers.

“Lived in France. It’s practically the national pastime.” Tomlinson shrugged, taking a long drag and exhaling a steady stream of smoke. He didn’t so much as sniffle.

“I can speak French.” Harry said strangely, the two conversations not quite related but at least family friends.

“Never learned a word.” Tomlinson said, grinning around his cigarette.

“So you said.” Harry said. He wanted to prove he listened. “I studied it for thirteen years.”

“And why the fuck would you waste your time doing that?” Tomlinson was joking, but there was still bite to it. “Nothing better to study sitting at home?”

Harry was homeschooled while most other families, at least those not raised with the extra money to spend on tutors and nannies, sent their children to the local school. Harry had never met someone who had gone to a public school. He wasn’t sure what he thought.

“I-I was just trying to make conversation.” Harry muttered, putting his hands in his jean pockets; his fingers were red and soon to be turning blue. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I’m just taking the piss out of you, Curly. Lighten up.” Tomlinson said, gently shoving Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s face remained tight and furrowed. He sighed. “Do you want an actual answer?”

“I didn’t ask a question.”

“You did. You don’t know you did, but you did.” Tomlinson lifted his eyebrows and took a long drag of his cigarette. “You’re better at this than you think, Love.”

Harry wanted to be gracious for the compliment but didn’t want to interrupt Tomlinson.

“In all honesty, I fucking hated it there. Didn’t want to go, only wanted to leave. It’s nothing against you personally, Love, but everything against what you’re talking about.” Tomlinson shrugged. His despair rolled off his shoulders and seemed to clatter on the ground by their feet, as if he was caught stealing something. Harry was too naive to know to leave it on the ground.

“What is there to hate about France? It seems lovely. You got to move there too? Seems pretty lucky.”

“Luck is the most backwards way to look at it.”

“Then how should I look at it?” Harry asked. Tomlinson leaned up from the wall and evened with Harry. There was a debate happening, one Harry couldn’t hear but could see darting behind Tomlinson’s eyes and knitting his eyebrows together. He placed the cigarette back between his lips, letting it bounce between his words.

“With far more attention.” Every bit of Harry’s attention was captured by the freckles grazing Tomlinson’s cheeks and warning glint in his eyes.

“Okay.” Harry nodded. Swallowing felt difficult for a moment; Harry didn’t know smoking would feel that way. “I-I will.”

They fell into a consuming silence. Tomlinson continued smoking and Harry stood silently beside him, slowly starting to shiver. He clenched his jaw tightly and tried to keep his teeth from chattering. People walked out in front of them, casting a glance at the smoke Tomlinson begrudgingly blew in their direction.

“You said you went to public school?” Harry said, furrowing his eyebrows. Tomlinson nodded slowly, eyeing Harry before taking his cigarette from his lips. “Is that why you’re kind of a dick?”

Tomlinson stared at Harry for a moment, his eyes tracing the curves of his face and tracking every dimple, freckle, acne scar, and spot. He landed on Harry’s eyes and broke into a smile.

“I like you.” He chuckled. “Don’t really give a fuck, eh?”

“It’s a fair question.” It wasn’t. It _so_ wasn’t. But Harry wanted to push Tomlinson’s buttons while he still had the naive excuse to get away with it.

“Homeschool make you this nosy?”

“Yes.” Harry smiled with his answer, relaxing his jaw and letting his teeth chatter again.

“You better get inside, Styles. You’re going to start turning blue. Hypothermia is a bitch.”

“I’m fine.” Harry denied. He tucked hair behind his ear and smoothed the back of his bandanna down. It wasn’t as warm as a real hat.

“Go inside.” Tomlinson insisted, thumbing toward the door. “Have your friends take you home and get you back before anyone sees you’re gone.”

“You aren’t my parents.” Harry said indignantly. “What do you know?”

“People start to panic after about two hours.” He spoke around the smoke. It flowed out of his mouth in an uneven, thin cloud. “And you’re going to need all your energy for tomorrow.”

Tomlinson lifted his hand to put his cigarette back in his mouth and offered Harry another extended look at his scarred hand. It wasn’t a story Harry could ask for, not an anecdote he could selfishly request to soothe his worries. Tomlinson caught him staring, turning his hand to stare at it himself.

“The first one isn’t that bad.” He said with a shrug. “It’s going to hurt, but it’s over fast. Just keep breathing and don’t--”

“Pass out. Yeah. I know.” Harry said quickly. “I know.”

“Wow. Homeschooling taught you something useful.”

“You mean French, right?” Harry said, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Jackass.”

“Êtes-vous marre encore, Tomlinson?”

“Shut up and go inside.” He said, changing hands to flick his ash away from Harry. “Before you freeze to death.”

“One more blow for the road?”

“It’s _drag_ .” He said, coughing and breathing smoke out through his nose. “You _can’t_ go around saying that.”

“Give me the cigarette.” Harry said, trying to copy Tomlinson’s posture and firmness.

“Yes, sir.” The cigarette was slotted between Harry’s fingers before he could even begin preening with his own success; he had to deliver with his confidence now.

The second drag was just as rough and painful as the first. Harry sputtered, trying to fight his body’s urge to hack up the smoke. Tomlinson laughed again, more muted the second time. He took the cigarette gingerly from Harry’s hand and placed it between his lips. He closed his lips around it tightly; it was goodbye.

“Thanks. See you around, I guess.” Harry stopped with his hand on the door. “I’d say nice to meet you, but I don’t really know if this counts as a meeting. I don’t even know your first name.”

“Nice to meet you, Curly.” He said slowly. “Now _go. inside._ ”

Laughing, Harry did as he was told. The pub hadn’t changed in capacity, but Harry was able to make it back to his table without another rush of panic. He’d just figured out how to at least muddle through a conversation. He might have even made a friend. Harry wasn’t entirely sure.

“Alright?” Zayn asked, grabbing his wrist and pulling him in. He spoke softly but was heard clearly under the noise.

“I’m fine. Just went out for some air.” Harry said, smile on his face.

“Oh. Okay. You scared us. You just disappeared.” Zayn said, placing his hand on Harry’s arm. “Niall wants to walk you home. Liam and I are going to head home too. Is that okay?”

Harry nodded and watched the new relief ease Zayn’s expression. In the spotty lighting of the pub, Zayn seemed to look different. All the features and aspects that drew young and naive Harry in were missing, or at least masked. His eyes were still warm and kind, but they were less striking to Harry at first glance. And second. He looked average with Liam. Less unattainable and far less idealized. Being surrounded with strangers, and talking to a few, brought Zayn back to Earth. He wasn’t a parent, wasn’t a guardian. Zayn was Harry’s loyal friend with a capacity for immense love. Niall was an escaped near-sibling, returning to take Harry’s hand and lead him into the next few terrifying days of his life-- even if he didn’t understand them.

They were both regular people, trying to be-- and stay-- in love in a place where love was a dangerous, bartered commodity. They were brave, but oh so wonderfully average. The only difference between the three of them was going to be a thin, three inch scar. That was all.

Harry was going to be okay. He just knew it.

* * *

Harry sat up to a phantom pulling of his hair. The same gentle fingers as always looped their way through Harry’s short curls before yanking them back. Even in his sleep, Harry felt the long exposing stretch of his throat. It wasn’t the most innocent way to wake up on the holiest day of a young man’s life. In less than twelve hours, he’d have a priest sitting in his room, walking through the ghosts Harry had conjured in the night. Monsignor’s ears wouldn’t hear the whimpers slipping through Harry’s lips, but Harry would know exactly where in his chest he’d felt Louis pulse and grip at his heart.

Harry liked it better when he had visions of water. It was far less consuming.

It was late morning, presuming Harry’s clock was still correct. He laid on his back and fumbled for his glasses, sticking them behind his ears and putting himself back into focus. He’d slept without a shirt in the spirit of having his very last hours with Louis be as honest as possible. Harry was all there-- spindly waist and stiff back, bumpy ribs and bony hips, legs that didn’t seem affected by the weight change, unruly hair-- and so was Louis. He could imagine just for a moment, when the moon crept in through the window and the room was drifting away as he dozed, Louis lying beside him. His blue eyes, the only thing to ever be familiar to Harry, watched him from the other side of the pillow before Harry fell asleep.

He woke up with tangled hair, unrecognizable words on his lips, and a desperate need for a shower.

It was a sin, Harry knew it. It sat on his shoulders, hunching him forward as he rested his other hand against the shower wall. Condemnation wasn’t terrifying to Harry knowing that the name slipping through his gritted teeth would be ripped from him like his his last breath. They could only take Louis away from him once. The power wouldn’t stay in their hands forever.

But it was nice to have it sit so comfortably in Harry’s hand. Very nice, actually.

Harry pushed the shower door back with one hand while the other felt around for his towel. The steam was making his already blurry surroundings impossible to decipher. Once the towel was secured in his hand, and then around his waist, Harry shuffled to the sink. With his forearm, he wiped the mirror clean and felt for his contacts. The caps stood out against the sink again, but merely in color. They didn’t follow Harry’s hands across the sink or blink as his tired fumbling. Louis’ goodbye had come and gone without warning. Instead Harry’s last thoughts of Louis were going to be the soiled ones he let manifest with his body hunched and chest heaving. God sent Louis to Harry and not only was he cutting all soulful ties, he was reducing him to a tug in his hair and a tingle down his spine.

His contacts weren’t in and his vision was still blurred, but his reflection finally looked right. His edges were unfinished and there was nothing recognizable about his skewed face. He was unfinished. Always would be.

Harry didn’t loiter in front of the mirror any longer than he had to, putting in his contacts and immediately walking back to his bedroom. He left the door open, the steam following him out. As he passed, Harry pushed his window open a half inch. It was cold but at least not as windy as it had been; he only felt the cold air when he stood directly beside it.

“Good morning.” Harry said to the distant, waking city. It was the one thing Harry was gaining in all the impending disaster. His view of Aspull stretched as far as the horizon was willing to take him. Harry had always wanted the city to answer him back.

With his eyes still on the town, his clock shortly chimed the hour: twelve noon. Catherine would be at his door in a panic in another half an hour; the party started at one. He had no idea how long it would last. His stomach grumbled as Harry pulled his underwear on. He knew breakfast was out of the question and hoped to tuck his hunger pangs away as he buttoned up his wisteria slacks. They still fit loosely around his waist, but caught on the curve of his hips and stayed just about where they would have been three weeks ago when Harry still had his weight post-sin and pre-purification.

Before getting his shirt, Harry kissed his St. William necklace and clasped it around his neck. He placed it securely against his chest before reaching for his rings. He still didn’t know the truth about the topaz Liam had pointed out. Maybe his birthday would offer him the chance to ask questions and be given truth in return. Out of habit, after sliding on his last ring, Harry placed his hand back on his dresser. His hand slapped against the wooden top, still trying to catch up with what he was expecting to find. Without his shirt on, it was difficult to remember but came rushing back in a moment.

His brooch was missing.

“Where did I put it?” Harry groaned, crouching and feeling around the base of his dresser. He didn’t remember getting home. His pint sank into him late in the evening. Harry felt the most of its slight effects when he was completely tucked into bed, Niall wishing him good night. “Come on, I can’t lose you today-- _not today_.”

Even though it was going off to be melted, Harry had to wear it until legally he was free to meet others uninhibited. It would only be removed when the door shut him in with the priest and with God. That was, it would be if he didn’t lose it between standing between Zayn and Niall in his room and in the pub. There were too many steps to retrace, and most of which Harry couldn’t do without a chaperone. Harry could though, check the window, tree, and lawn he unceremoniously fell onto the night before.

Harry pushed himself to his feet and brushed his knees off quickly. If he was going to check the tree, Harry figured he probably should change his pants, unless he wanted both Catherine and Niall to try wringing his neck. The bark on the tree was peeling far more than it had in previous winters and--

Harry stopped. The room had gotten cold, but he couldn’t feel a breeze across his skin. In looking up, Harry was horrified to find his window had opened-- _been_ opened-- and there was a man sitting on the ledge, trying not to fall from the loose shingles.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He squawked, trying to use his arms to cover his bare chest.

Tomlinson looked at him, still scruffed and covered in an oversized denim jacket. He offered a smile, both hands stuck in his pockets. “Oi, ‘morning.”

“It’s noon.” Harry spat, trying to establish some kind of wrong for Tomlinson to stand in, considering he didn’t understand what was wrong about what he was doing then.

“Sorry. ‘Afternoon, Love.” Tomlinson said, taking his hands out to offer his surrender.

“How do you know where I live?” Harry still stood with his arms clutching at his back, trying to cover his indecency. Tomlinson didn’t seem to care. His eyes didn’t avoid him though.

“Everyone knows where the Clarke Estate is. You just about live in a castle.” Tomlinson crossed his ankles and placed his hands in his lap. “Speaking of which, purple really is a royal color, innit?”

“Don’t look at me.” Harry said shortly, scrambling to grab his shirt from the hanger.

“Where else do you suggest I look?” He laughed, lifting an eyebrow. His eyes drifted to look just over Harry’s head.

“What do you want?”

“Don’t mean to barge in, but I believe I have something you may need.” Tomlinson reached into his pocket, his scarred fingers supporting Harry’s brooch delicately. It looked far more polished than Harry remembered.

“You stole this from me on purpose?” Harry stepped up to take the brooch with only one arm successfully in his shirt; the other was bent awkwardly behind him, still caught at the shoulder. He took it from the white river marks on Tomlinson’s hand, his fingers touching the raised skin accidentally. A pounding sounded in his ears, like his heart had heard the fear of Tomlinson’s own heartbeat in combination with Harry’s last moments of unity with his Betrothed.

“If I said I wanted to make sure I could see you again, would that be a terrible answer?” Tomlinson squinted one eye as he spoke, trying to judge Harry’s reaction.

“Yes! You followed me home!”

“I didn’t follow you. Your address is public knowledge, Love.” Tomlinson countered evenly, still looking above Harry’s head. “I did invite myself though-- I’ll admit that wasn’t very couth of me. My sincerest apologies, I just figured you constantly have a crew around you--”

“I don’t care!” Harry cried, raising his voice. “What are you doing? Get out! You gave me my brooch now get out!”

“Can I just-- I wanted to offer my help.” Tomlinson grabbed the pane of the window, steadying himself as he began kicking his feet. There was a innocence that challenged Harry’s naivety. “You were with a bunch of Naturals yesterday. In case they don’t understand, I wanted to offer myself-- my _help_. Offer my help.”

“Naturals?” Harry tucked his shirt in, struggling as he refused to unbutton his pants again.

“Your friends? Liam and the other two. Still have their Engravings, right? One of them is Liam’s and the other one, his travel badge-- I assume he isn’t either.” He said. “They have no idea what you’re about to go through. And neither do you.”

“I don’t need a stranger’s help.” Harry wasn’t sure if friendships were supposed to go this quickly. He felt caught, unprepared to even comprehend the offer.

“I’ve been cleared twice.” He said with a blank expression. “Please, let me help you.”

The scar on his hand echoed on Harry’s fingertips. A second heart pounded in his ears. “What’d you do?”

“Popped the stitches.” He shrugged and Harry nearly gagged.

“Why would you do that?” Harry hissed, covering his mouth. He couldn’t imagine going back and further messing with something that shouldn’t have been touched in the first place. The pulling, the aching, the bleeding--

“Turns out it’s illegal.” Tomlinson laughed and ran a hand up and down his left arm. “Bet you didn’t know tampering with your own body after a clearing is considered trying to break contract. You can get a splash of acid poured down your arm _or_ in a Bohr hole in your crown. Your choice.”

“Why are you helping me?” Their meeting had been strictly by chance. It seemed uncomfortably coincidental that a pub stranger wanted to help him during the biggest crisis of his life. “What do you want? Money? I-I don’t have any in my name right now. I can’t help you.”

Tomlinson pushed himself off the window to the floor. He landed firmly, looking thankful to be on sturdy ground. Harry thought nothing of the second set of footsteps now moving the floorboards above his guardians’ room.

“I don’t want anything. I’m trying to keep _them_ from taking anything from you.” Tomlinson waved out to the rest of the room. It was empty, but Harry could feel the impatience of Catherine swarming them. Tomlinson had urgency worrying his eyebrows, undoubtedly reliving the final hours he had with his own Betrothed. He wasn’t in any danger, but he knew Harry was-- Tomlinson was _still_ that invested-- that paranoid-- after all that time.

“I’m really going to need the help, aren’t I?” Harry didn’t want to hear the answer. He was thankfully granted his silence-- by at least one person.

“Darling, are you awake?” Catherine was taking the stairs quickly. She knew he was.

“Fuck. Fuck, you have to hide.” Harry hissed, grabbing Tomlinson by the arm and pushing him toward the open closet. “Just hide and shut up. Please.”

“Why don’t you just let me go back down the--”

“No! No, just shut up and stay here.” Harry shoved him back and shut the door before he could argue another word.

“Eddie? Who are you talking to?” Catherine opened the bedroom door, seemingly surprised to find Harry at his mirror, struggling to pin his brooch to his jacket lapel.

“There’s no one here, Mum.” Harry said, looking at her with suspicion. “Did you hear Niall downstairs? He’s a new voice around the house.”

“He’s downstairs already.” She said. Harry missed the lapel and jabbed his finger, a prick of blood forming immediately.

“Uh, I don’t know then. There’s no one here.” Harry put his thumb in his mouth, hoping it would do the same effect as if it had been his foot.

“Eddie, you aren’t nervous about today, are you?” She released the doorknob and stepped farther into the room. Harry felt more infantile than he would have liked, thumb in his mouth and maternal figure speaking down to him as her hand reached to pet down his hair. “It’s all going to work out, Darling. I promise. Your father and I have thought this through. You just have to trust us.”

“Yes, Mum.” Harry nodded, pulling his thumb from his mouth. He could taste the bitter stripe of his blood along his lip. “I will.”

“You look very handsome. You’re making me proud.” She placed a hand in his hair, combing his frizzing, half dried bang back. She didn’t make a comment on its half state of preparation. She barely noticed his shirt was unevenly buttoned and tucked at a slant. It was a mother and son moment Harry never saw coming. “I know this is hard, but it’s going to be great.”

“Okay.” Harry had nothing more to say to her.

“You know, Martin wants me to wait until your older to tell you this, but I think it’s important now.” Catherine smiled at Harry fondly, her fingers still playing with his hair. Harry stood with his back pressing against the mirror, wishing it would open up and let him take just that extra step further away.

“Okay.” He stuck his thumb back in his mouth.

“Your grandmother, Nana Winona? She died before you came along, but she had this very same talk with me when I was about to turn twenty.”

Maybe it was the grogginess of the early afternoon or the blood in Harry’s mouth, but Catherine was both reassuring and alarming. She was being gentle with him, the way she had before he turned seventeen. When she used to pick him up and swing him around the house, singing along to the strange hymns he had stupidly learned at church-- rather than the attempted nursery rhymes Zayn had corrected Harry’s childhood with years later. Her faux exasperation when Harry would tell her the trials and misadventures of his dolls and action figures and how Skipper had lost her head _again_. Her ear-splitting shrieks when Harry went outside without her permission the first time, stumbling down the concrete steps in the back and falling into a rose bush; she soaked him head to toe in antiseptic and wrapped every scrape with a plaster.

Harry didn’t know his birth mother’s name. He knew it wasn’t Catherine, but as he looked into her eyes, he could tell they were both wishing it was. Just for a moment. It would’ve made everything a whole lot simpler.

“Wait. I thought you and Ma-- Dad got married when you were twenty-one?” Harry said. Natural marriages were notoriously faster than paired ones. People in love don’t like to wait. Go figure.

“We did, but I’ve still been exactly where you are.” Catherine was confessing and Harry swore he could hear the other two heartbeats in the room over his own. “Your father isn’t my God-Given pair, Eddie. But it doesn’t matter. We’re still happy-- we had a family!”

“I thought cleared couples weren’t meant to have kids.”

She laughed and cupped Harry’s face in both of her own. “We still followed the rules; have one child that isn’t a direct heir to be the neutral asset in the case of biological children.” Her heart-to-heart was developing into divulging her two decade long masterplan-- and delusions of love. “You don’t have to be scared. It’s all going to work out. Nicholas will make you happy; you won’t even notice what’s missing--”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Martin doesn’t want you to know. This decision is purely business-- it’s what’s best for everyone and he doesn’t want you to think your necessary adoption had anything to do with it.

“But it does!” Harry cried, shaking his head free from her hands. “You only took me in because you needed to appease the law! There was never a choice! W-Was my mother even sick? Or did you just take me from her?”

“Eddie, please. Your mother was very sick, she was trying to place you before she got too ill. Don’t be ridiculous.” She cooed, reaching for him again. “We wanted to try and save you from the terrors of being married off for money.”

“And what exactly is happening to me now?” Harry pointed at himself, luckily missing his white shirt with the drop of blood on his thumb.

“This is different. You’re staying here, in Aspull with us. You aren’t… flitting around like your friends. You’ll be home, here with us--”

“And making you money.” Harry said, his entire world dipping and rising again. The water came up higher that time; Harry felt it around his neck. A slow building ring of pressure sitting just under his chin. “Is that why you hate Niall? A-And you _tolerate_ Zayn, my _only_ friends? Because they aren’t confined by all those contracts?”

Catherine’s hands gripped Harry’s face tightly, her thumbs pushing into the soft skin of his cheeks. She was leaving red where there should have been tear tracks. “If they knew, they’d try and talk you out of it. You’d be told to leave us, probably slip out and follow that sneaky Irishman all the way back with him. You’d break the travel perimeter all because of some foolish boys left in God’s Image.”

“M-Mum, you’re scaring me.” Harry muttered, reaching up and pulling on her hand. The water was rising; it pooled in Harry’s eyes.

“I can’t lose you, Harry. If you leave, everything falls to pieces. You have to stay. With us, here, in Aspull. Nicholas will give you a great life. It’s the best I could get you without being too obvious with your father.”

“O-Okay. Okay, I’ll marry him. I’ll do it. Please, let go of me.” Harry blinked back the first drops of the ocean filling up his head. He could barely hear Catherine over the waves crashing in his ears. He just kept nodding, watching relief wash over her tight mouth and clenched jaw.

Her hands dropped to his shoulders and smoothed out his jacket. She spoke to him, the words muddled and impossible to hear behind the six feet of water Harry was in. He kept nodding until she was at the door, holding it and smiling at Harry. He just wanted her gone. He wanted everything gone.

The door shut and Harry fell back against the wall. He didn’t register his crying until his chest was heaving, his body tensing and legs giving away to slide him to the floor. On the day Harry thought he was ready to lose one thing, it was suddenly made clear Harry didn’t even know what he had to lose in the first place.

He’d been selected without a drop of goodwill. It was all legality. He’d been humored for twenty years in thinking there was an actual discussion occurring over his possible clearing. He’d been renamed to hide his true origins, but allowed to keep the heartwarming story of an orphan. His picture was printed in papers and his name was plastered all over town to cement him where people knew him; he couldn’t run even if he tried. His guardian’s had trapped him. The cage was just a lot bigger than Harry originally thought.

“I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Harry clutched his arm, speaking to the name he could no longer expect to feel in a few hours. “I ruined everything. I didn’t have a chance-- I ruined everything for you!”

Louis had been predetermined for Harry, and Harry for Louis, even before Harry left the arms of his mother and the orphanage. It was all supposed to work out, just as it had for them in previous lives, eons ago. Louis was probably a good student, working hard to get the best marks to go to the best school and make himself the best version of himself to offer in his reunion with his other half. It was only Harry that was falling apart; he didn’t go to school with the other boys, he didn’t leave his house, didn’t know how to talk to strangers correctly, didn’t have a voice, didn’t have the option to even meet Louis. That poor boy would be sitting in his home later that night and feel the quiet swell of ease rise in his chest and he’d know Harry had left him; died his own personal death.

“Hey, you’re okay. You’re alright.” Harry didn’t remember Tomlinson and certainly didn’t remember he was most likely eavesdropping from the moment Catherine started spitting villainous monologues.

Tomlinson rushed out from behind the shut door and knelt beside Harry, placing his hand on Harry’s chest to try and get him to sit up straight. Harry grabbed at his hand, feeling the scars with frantic worry and attempted memorization.

“Hey, no. That’s not going to happen to you.” Tomlinson said, replacing his left hand with his right. Harry gripped the soft, smooth hand tightly as it rested over his pounding heart. “Y-You’re going to be alright. It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“This whole thing is a lie. They’ve planned my whole life!” Harry cried, shaking his head. “They didn’t even give me a chance!”

“I know. I know.” He sighed, sitting back on his heels. “But that doesn’t mean that anything worse is going to happen to you. It’s just going to be a clearing. Plain and simple-- you just have to _keep your cool_.” He spoke more firmly, trying to rope Harry back into reality. He was casting a line out, trying to pull Harry ashore.

“I-I-I can’t!” Harry felt like there was water in his lungs. He coughed, feeling a hiccup of bile rise in his throat. “No. No no no.” He placed a hand over his mouth and pleaded for his seasickness to subside.

“Harry, just take a deep breath.”

It was instantaneous. The water dropped out and Harry gasped for air, his chest rising and bringing Tomlinson’s hand back to himself.

“You used my name.” Harry said, tucking his hair back behind his ear. The blood rushing in them had quieted down, if only to offer him the chance to hear Tomlinson correctly. “Y-You heard.”

“She was speaking pretty loudly.” Tomlinson said. He placed his hand on Harry’s knee as he sat down on the floor, legs stretching to the wall.

“She almost never calls me that.”

“Shame. Harry… Harry Styles.” The name rolled around in his mouth like he was tasting it. Harry hoped it was sweet. “It has a delightful ring to it, I have to admit.” There was a glimmer of something in Tomlinson’s eyes-- Harry knew it had to be honesty, but a twist in his stomach tried to convince him it was hope.

“Can’t believe I never noticed why they changed it.”

“You can’t be expected to know everything without the facts, Love.” Tomlinson said. “I mean, you let them tell you your name and you believe anything. That’s not your fault.”

“Sure sounds it.”

“The way we’re raised isn’t our fault. What we do with the disaster they create surely is.”

Harry sniffled and wiped his nose, careful of his sleeve. “What do I do?”

“Survive.”

It sounded so tiring. Harry wished he could get to the end result of it and just crawl into his coffin.

“Survive.” Harry repeated.

“You’re not going to do this alone. You used to have… whoever it is o-on your arm, but I’ll still be here. We’ll take this on together.”

Harry sniffled. “And to think, you probably thought we were going to just say hello in the pub yesterday-- complete strangers. Now you’ve got _me_ to suddenly juggle.”

“Honestly not regretting it one bit.” Tomlinson laughed, touching his shoulder. “If anything, I am regretting my outfit. I need to change if I’m going to be allowed in your birthday.”

“You aren’t invited.” Harry said, lifting an eyebrow.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t get in.” He said with a wink. “Watch me.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Harry tucked his hair behind his ear, feeling the pulling at the nape of his neck again. “Does everything get easier once you can leave home?”

Tomlinson’s hesitation spoke loudly, but Harry allowed it to be overshadowed by four words. “With the right people.”

“I think I found some.”

“Not to be bias, but I think you did too.”

“I wasn’t talk about you.” Harry said, pushing Tomlinson back jokingly.

Harry’s hand pressed solidly against Tomlinson’s chest. It was firm and surprisingly hot, like a blush through three layers. Tomlinson let himself fall back onto his hands, biting his lip to keep himself from laughing outwardly.

“You did find me though.” Tomlinson said, pushing himself up to his knees. “You did find me.” Harry folded his hands in his lap, following Tomlinson’s eyes as he stood.

“I wasn’t looking.” Harry said.

“Right.” Tomlinson sat down on the edge of the window, swinging his leg over and resting it firmly on a shingle. “Well, do look for me later, yeah? I’ll be the one entertaining entire rooms of strangers.” Harry tried to get to his feet quickly. As he scrambled and pushed up from the wall, the tails of his shirt untucked again. “ _Styles_.”

“I will!”

Tomlinson waved and pushed himself over the window ledge. He slinked across the branches to the trunk, waving Harry goodbye one final time before scaling down to the ground and disappearing.

Harry had finally been brought back to land, or at least marooned on shore. The water-- the uneasiness in his bones-- pooled around his ankles. Everything else in his life had just given out from underneath him, but the water was keeping him afloat, but not submerged.

In the uncertainty of the future, Harry at least knew that solitude wouldn’t kill him. It wouldn’t take him after hovering over him for twenty years. He had made friends, created a family. One had already been created for him before, who was to say he couldn’t do it himself the second time.

Harry tucked his shirt tails back into his pants, adjusted his suit jacket over his shoulders, and ran his hands through his hair repeatedly. He fixed the drying curls around his ears and fixed his bang back. There was a nervousness to look perfect for the coming evening, to make a good first impression, but Harry had to remember who he was trying to impress. It was all expendable people in his life. Not one was sent by God. It was all luck (or lack thereof) that placed every person at the party. Luck could run out, and it seemed it had.

* * *

As Harry took the stairs down to the first floor, it seemed that the party had already begun without him. It was a fraud, a networking and fundraising gold mine, and Harry was the catalytic blood sacrifice. Actually, Louis was. At the foot of the stairs, as if hearing him slowly sink downward, Zayn and Niall stood with hands lifted to guide him down the last three steps. Guess he really was a fainting and fall risk.

“You look wonderful, Harry.”

“I look ridiculous.” Harry muttered, running his hands down his jacket. The water rose to his knees. Making an impression was more sickening when it no longer felt like a first, but rather a last, impression.

The pattern of his suit was so much worse through the eyes of others; in his room, Harry was the only opinion he could seem to hear. Once downstairs, Harry could begin to hear every voice in the next four rooms. Martin’s was the loudest. Harry was the ugliest purchase he’d ever made.

“Hey, I made you that suit head to toe and I think you look stunning.” Niall cut in, slipping his arm around Harry’s waist. It was less for affection and more to make sure Harry kept moving toward the crowd. He was the guest of honor that was refusing to participate in the party. “Go show yourself off.”

“I don’t want to.” Harry didn’t want to tell either Zayn or Niall the truth. The tension was already high from having them be around Harry so much. The legal anxieties surrounding two men in God’s Image with an undecided teenager would spark a small brawl in the dining room.

“We studied, you can do it.” Niall kept pushing him. “Here, we have your first guest. Just practice. Say hi.”

In the tearoom, decorated with strung lights and an assortment of extraneous chairs, was a crowd of about ten people. Far too many for the tearoom, even more so for Harry’s social tolerance. His heels pressed into the floor, but Niall had bought him heeled loafers and the frictionless sole moved along the wood floor regardless. Zayn reached for the back of a man standing and looking at the Clarke family portrait that was about ten years and one child off from accurate.

“My dear, you have the pleasure of meeting the guest of honor first.” Zayn spoke softly as the man turned around.

“Liam, hi.” Harry sighed, nearly collapsing. “Hi.”

“Hi. How are you feeling?” Liam smiled, placing his arm around Zayn. It mirrored the way Niall was with Harry, but with far less restraint.

“I kind of feel like I’m going to throw up.” Harry admitted. “Today has been… too much already.” From the moment Harry woke up to then standing in front of Liam, there wasn’t one thing Harry could share with them: his dream, his shame, his shower, his surprise guest, his missing brooch, his overwritten destiny. It was a sure-fire way to be overheard and punished far beyond dietary confinements.

“Drink?” Liam held out his stout glass.

“N-No I think I better not. If Mum catches that on my breath, she’ll kill me herself.” He’d almost seen it. “But thank you.”

“We’ll get you one after everything is over.” Zayn promised. He glossed over the worst part of the night, as if it was just going to be an uncomfortable conversation with relatives-- and it was, but _then_ Harry had to have surgery in his own bedroom.

“And something to eat.” Harry said, placing a hand over his stomach. “I’m bloody starved.”

“I know. I’ll try to steal you something and sneak it but you’re going to be under heavy surveillance once Catherine or Martin catch you-- Nicholas is here.”

“He is?” Harry didn’t think it would be so soon. So close to the grave site of his first and only true love. “I don’t want to talk to him. Not yet. Not now.”

“You won’t. You won’t. Just, talk to Liam first. Introduce yourself.” Zayn placed his hand on Liam’s chest, shrinking his tall stature with one delicate touch. “He’s harmless.”

“Uh, hi. I’m Harry.”

“Liam. Absolute pleasure, Mr. Styles-- _Clarke_.” Liam took Harry’s hand and shook it firmly, exaggeratedly showing him how to correctly make a physical greeting.

“Thank you for coming… I know your time is very, uh, valuable.” Harry muttered, looking at Niall for assistance.

“I’m a mechanic, Sunshine.” Liam said, smiling and laughing warmly at Harry. “You don’t have to butter me up, but I appreciate it.”

“Sorry. See? I’m terrible at this.” Harry groaned, running a hand over his face. It was supposed to be easy. Well, easy with _one_ person, and that’s all Harry would need; the confidence and knowledge that he made sense to one person. It was the seamless communication and reunion of the two halves of his soul that would, by God’s will, translate to Harry being able to talk without sounding like a complete buffoon. Hopefully.

“Just make small talk.” Zayn patted Liam’s chest again and smiled. The people behind them were clueless to the painful conversation and Niall was doing his best to keep Harry from running.

“Uh, where are you from?”

“Here and there. Spent a lot of time in Italy recently though. It’s surprisingly beautiful this time of year.” He said, looking at Zayn. “I’ll have to take you.”

“That’s a pretty shitty birthday gift for Harry.” Zayn said, nodding his head back toward the focus of the exercise.

“Sorry-- Italy really is nice. You ever been?” Liam shook his head and looked more intently at Harry.

“No. No I haven’t.” Harry quickly saw how boring his conversations were destined to be. So much of his life had happened over so little ground. “I haven’t had the chance to travel much.” He’d never have the chance.

“Where do you want to go first?” Liam asked, taking a sip of his drink. Harry could smell some of it from where he was standing. It made Harry feel like he should have been lightheaded, the fumes strong and flavorless.

“Uh, I don’t know.” Harry muttered. The three of them looked at Harry, confusion and pity taking hold. “I think I’d just like to see the ocean.” The water had thankfully drained, but Harry could still feel the ripples across his skin. He had the feeling seeing the water for himself would be beautiful, the crashing waves like listening to the Earth breathe.

“The ocean? That’s not a bad view. Aspull is pretty close, you know? You’re practically there.” Liam thumbed over his shoulder like the rushing waves were coming out of his fireplace.

“I didn’t.” Harry said. “I had no idea.”

“I’ll take you.” Zayn said, placing a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Once the weather warms up, I’ll take you to the sea, yeah?”

“Sure. Sounds great.” Harry wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to leave the city. He was under the wrong impression about his legal status when he was taught topical Bureau law as a student. The travel perimeter was revised and minuscule for Assets. The ocean might have been too far.

Maybe it was why he kept feeling constant premonitions of water; it was the universe’s attempt to have him feel something he’d never get to see.

Harry placed his hand on top of Zayn’s, taking his kindness with gratitude, before pushing his hand away. He wasn’t up for feeling much of anything at the moment.

“I should probably find my parents, shouldn’t I?” Harry said, stepping away from Zayn.

“Yeah-- wait. _Parents_?”

“I’ll see you later.”

The tearoom was to the left of the stairs, Harry stepping out and quickly turning toward the dining room and kitchen. None of the voices sounded familiar, but the commotion was for him one way or another. He had to be thankful. There’d be witnesses.

“There you are!” He was spotted the moment he entered the dining room. Martin and many of the aged, bored faces Harry had seen in his book stared up at him, glasses in hand.

“Hello.” Harry lifted a hand awkwardly, trying to wave. “Thank you all for coming.”

“Is that really your boy, Martin?” A man sitting a seat over from Martin looked absolutely amazed and baffled. Harry swore that was Andrew, Nicholas’ father, but his photographic memory was failing him quickly.

“It is. It is. That’s our boy, Edward.” It was the first time Martin had used a name-- _any name_ \-- for Harry. He was proud, or probably just scared out of his mind. The risk of the contracts he signed thirty years ago were finally maturing.

“His photo in the paper doesn’t show him a day over seventeen, I reckon.” Maybe-Andrew laughed, sloshing his glass toward Harry. The rest of the table chuckled along with him.

“I hate photos.” Harry said, accidentally silencing the room. “I mean, uh, I don’t really like to, like… pose for photos. There isn’t one of me recently.”

“No photos?” Someone asked. “Why not? Catherine! Cathy, dear, tell me you’ve gotten some pictures of Eddie tonight. Look at him, head to toe in _purple_.”

“Haven’t gotten one yet, but I should! I should!” She pushed her chair back from the table quickly. “Let me grab my camera, don’t you go anywhere, darling.”

“Oh, I can’t.” Harry promised, placing his hands in his pockets. The room was still watching him.

“Martin, you really picked a great pair. Your business is going to absolutely thrive here.” Maybe not-Andrew continued.

“At first, I thought Shaw was off his nut saying he was going to leave Stockport for Aspull. But, the travel perimeter will really help us; can’t shop anywhere else, why not buy the absolute best Britain has to offer?” Martin responded, lifting his glass. The table hummed in agreement.

They discussed business right in front of Harry, as if he was only allowed in on the conversation because the table was out of time. In a few hours, they’d be cutting him open and inserting their plan just under his skin. Harry was a voodoo doll, but only meant to punish.

The company only had one shop, the one Harry had been to the day prior. The business in Aspull was small and only the wealthiest that were left in God’s Image could really travel to get their clothes made by a Clarke. They didn’t need many locations, but they did apparently need to sell out their only son to ensure they’d make millions before the consideration of their summer collections.

Harry had never wanted to burn anything before in his life, but standing in his kitchen, fuming with suffocating frustration and the claustrophobic realization of being ignored, Harry thought about it. He could do it. He knew quite a few people with lighters. That Bureau contract could probably burn pretty easily. So could every paper with his photo printed in it. And every photo Catherine wanted to take.

“Come here, Eddie! Let me get a picture of you all dressed up.” Catherine stepped out of the other room with her camera gripped in her hand. She waved him over to the blank wall beside the window. The curtains were drawn and Harry no idea of the time of day. The cage door was shut until he was forced to fly.

“Mum, please. I don’t want a photo.”

“Nonsense! Stand here and look happy.” Catherine smiled at him, the threat returning to her face. Her jaw was tight and she was familiar to the discomfort crossing Harry’s face, but she’d also lived to swallow and forget it. She was the only person who could really ask Harry to do the same. He had to give her that much.

Harry stood against the wall and put his hands in his pockets. He still felt like an upsetting spectacle. He had intended to be spotted by his Betrothed, not gawked at by every millionaire in English fashion. It was an important lesson though, wasn’t it? Every last attempt was futile. Louis was gone. This would be their last photo together.

Harry made sure to smile bright. He wanted to give his Betrothed’s memory something loving to remember him by.

Catherine took seven photos. Harry didn’t move an inch, smile stuck and forced after the first flash. His suit would probably be published in the paper next week under his wedding announcement, but the wrong eyes tracking his loud suit on the page. She shook each photo and waited for it to develop, holding each one between her thumb and forefinger like it was toxic.

The full dining table watched with a sense of wonder and curiosity. Harry had been sealed up in the Clarke estate for twenty years, most likely spoken about and traded between at least every big name sitting by Martin, and this was their first time seeing him. His photos were probably aged, his social acclimation was poor, and his smile was tense. He was the prized possession of the Clarke company, keeping them above the law and above the average tax bracket, and he was a despicable mess.

A wisteria suit. What was he _thinking_?

“I-I’m going to get some air.” He said to Catherine, trying to decide how to escape.

“Don’t wander too far, Father Byrne should be here any minute.”

“Okay okay, alright.” Harry hadn’t bothered to listen.

He politely passed back through the room, past Zayn and Niall, and pushed for the patio door. He just needed to be alone, needed to recalibrate how he felt being such a mockery of class and high society. He was meant for one set of eyes only and here he was attracting every pair around. Harry didn’t like being seen; he’d grown up with no one _wanting_ to see him, even in the most literal ways. Eye contact with his guardians was a gift given to him on his fifth birthday.

“God, what the fuck am I doing? This is wrong. This is _all_ wrong. Louis, why can’t you be here? I want you to-- Oh, sorry, I thought no one was out here.” Harry said, stopping abruptly. A man was attempting to balance himself on top of the patio railing when Harry stepped outside. The man was tall and lean and unsettling familiar: Nicholas.

His smile was sweet, but tense and somewhat forced. He was clueless and Harry could see it; he hoped Nicholas could see it on him too.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” His eyes were hazel. They tracked Harry’s suit from cuffs to collar mostly trying to decode the distracting pattern. He at least didn’t say anything. He studied it quietly.

“I’m Harry.”

“Nicholas.” He held his hand out. Harry denied it on the silent grounds that a marriage shouldn't start like a business meeting. “Your uh, your mother told me your name was Edward.”

“No. That’s not my name.” Harry said, tucking his hands into his pockets. Nicholas’ hand twisted the fabric of his jacket just under his right elbow. “What name did they give you?”

“Edward.” Nicholas’ hand flattened over the sleeve, pressing down on the new mistake embedded under his skin.

“Please, don’t call me that.” Harry stepped forward and rested his elbows on the railing. The city was dimmer than usual, but not a single star spotted the sky. “I won’t answer.”

“H-Harry, then.” Nicholas repeated the name. It sat on his tongue, heavy and sour. “How much have you heard about me?”

“I’ve only seen your picture.” The moments Harry spent with his picture with Niall were met with incomprehensible dread and fear; he couldn’t memorize a single word. “I don’t have to know anything. I’m a stranger.”

“But you’re my husband.”

“Not yet.”

“I have to know everything about you-- I want to!” Nicholas made the grand gesture of taking Harry’s hand, to which he immediately pulled away.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry asked, staring down at Nicholas’ still extended hand. “You can’t do that.”

“Hold you hand? Harry, please. We’re allowed.” Nicholas chuckled, reaching for him again.

“No.” Harry had had enough disgusting thoughts for one day. He was filled head to toe, at capacity, with sins.  He still had Louis’ name ghosting over his bottom lip, his teeth digging into it that morning as the weight on his shoulders hunched him forward into the wall and buckled his knees. His hands still trembled, still ached. His heart was still racing. Harry couldn’t allow himself the simple lie that they were allowed to do anything; it could be the last straw that got him a lobotomy.

“Harry, don’t be scared of me. I’m not-- I mean, I just wanted to-- Please, let me hold your hand. Just that. Let me comfort you.”

“I’ve been comforted just fine without you.” Harry said, face feeling hot with embarrassment. “Please don’t assume I want to be touched.”

“I know you aren’t pleased with this idea, Harry. But think of all the positive things that will come out of it! We’ll have a share in your dad’s company-- and mine! We’ll live so comfortably wherever you want in Aspull.” Nicholas’ slight age advantage showed. He was the one being given the power; it passed over Harry’s head from his guardians to Nicholas. “For the honeymoon I’ll take you wherever you’d like.”

“What’s a honeymoon?” Harry dug his hands into his pockets to protect them. “Why do we need to travel?”

“It’s after the wedding. We take some time away and we just… get to know each other.” It was Nicholas’ turn to look bashful, his cheeks flushing and eyes darting to look at his empty hands.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

“It’s different.” Nicholas said softly. “There’s a lot less talking.”

Harry didn’t understand him or his crimson cheeks, but he stayed silent to let it all finish speaking their part. Despite being unpaired for a while, he had still lived among other people. Nicholas had learned about marriage and he was all Harry had to learn from. It was embarrassing to have his future husband explain every delicate and sensitive detail-- especially since he _still_ didn’t get it. Harry was ruining the surprise, the long heard about magic and rush of rosy love.

But paired marriages never felt like that. Someone was always meant to be left in the dark. It made everything go more smoothly.

“I’m sorry… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry shook his head. “And I’m not sure we’re allowed to be talking about this. Without our parents. Shouldn’t they decide where we can go?”

“They can. But I want to know what you want.” Nicholas was sweet. He was trying, but he was so diluted. “It’s your wedding too.”

“Right now, the only wedding I want to go to is Zayn’s.” Harry said his name firmly, giving Nicholas a look as if he was behind for not knowing him.

“He works for your father. We’ve met, I believe. Or at least, I remember him.” Nicholas said. “He’s got the Atheist family.”

“He’s my best friend.” Harry stopped Nicholas before he spoke much further. “I want to see him get married before we think about doing anything.”

“That’s not our choice.” Nicholas said regretfully. He placed a hand on Harry’s forearm, the touch forming a trapping grip.  “We get married in two weeks.”

The few stars overhead disappeared and the city dimmed impossibly low. Everything in Harry felt dark, forgotten and missing.

“My stitches won’t even be healed then.” Harry muttered, tugging his arm away. Nicholas’ fingers were digging into Louis. Trying to pry him out himself.

“It’s not up to me. Your parents and my father decided.”

“I can’t… I can’t do that.” Harry stepped back, shaking his head. “I can’t do this. It’s too fast. C-Catherine can’t ask me to get married like she did. I-I’m not ready. I’m not!”

“Harry, your mother knows what she’s doing. She just wants you to be able to start your life-- move in with me and start the business going. It’s not a punishment. It’s not bad.” He was so innocent, so sweet and assuring, but Harry knew it was a lie. Harry had been warned to look at things with far more attention and now he couldn’t unsee the plans.

“I can’t. Nicholas, I’m sorry. I have to say something I--”

“Eddie, darling, get in here! Father Byrne has arrived.” Catherine interrupted, as if summoned.

“It can’t possibly be time.” Harry gulped, whipping his head around. He had just started to form his own incoherent rebellion. Harry was just starting to feel something.

“Yes, come on then.” Catherine waved him closer.

“Mum, I--” His hands felt empty. He gripped his jacket sleeve tightly, hand resting over Louis. He only had an hour left, then the longest and loneliest two weeks ahead of him.

“Come on, we’ll meet you upstairs. You still have to say the Last Prayer.” She stepped forward to place a hand on Harry’s back. “Better get up there, dear.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Harry.” Nicholas said, coating over Harry’s last frantic moments. Harry returned no such favor and left the patio.

Nearly every person attending the party was standing in the foyer, waiting to see Harry’s last look of composure. They were greatly disappointed, Harry was sure. He could feel his hands beginning to shake in his pockets, his jacket overheating him and making him sweat, his face was completely pale but felt flushed just the same. Harry looked a proper mess.

In the back of the crowd, Zayn, Liam, and Niall waved and smiled. Their support was a comfort and the only thing to keep Harry’s feet from sticking to the floor. He tried to remember to smile. He wanted to remember how it felt to have his two friends before him, his best friend’s long-searched for Betrothed, and his Louis all with him for one last moment.

He was allowed the privacy to go up to his room alone. The Last Prayer was always to be performed alone. After over a decade of communicating with God in church, led by a holy father and guided by the people around you, the Last Prayer was the last chance at peace. It was meant to be closure for those being cleared, the last moment to talk to the man Harry would be turning his back on. As Harry reached his bedroom, it felt like his last chance to beg.

Stepping back into his room, seeing his bed unmade and still rustled, stirred the shame back into the deep pit of Harry’s stomach. He’d dared to think intimately of Louis again. His thoughts had soured. Nothing was sacred. The hands he clasped in prayer were soiled and filthy. Every attempt to purify him had been wasted in a hurried few minutes standing under a stream of hot water. Harry’s stomach growled, but he knew how he’d poisoned it the night before. God did too.

Zayn had been honest, he’d been _right_ , but Harry couldn’t stop himself from silently arguing with him. It wasn’t stupidly suspicious of his guardians to want to purify him before his clearing. Sins were rising just under the surface of his skin. They were the waves he felt at his feet, pooling around his neck and choking him. It wasn’t the parable of visions, it was the temptation of sin. And Harry had given in almost immediately.

Harry scrambled to his desk. He pulled loose paper from his drawers and tested three pens until he found one that worked. If he passed out, if Zayn had been wrong and his sins caught up with him in a rush of purging and bleeding, Harry needed a backup plan. He needed to preserve his life before it was cut away.

His Last Prayer wasn’t for God, but for a defenseless orphan being held underwater and left to stare up at the ripples of light, until he finally stopped trying to swim.

The words came out quickly, the pen scratching over the paper and his desk:

_Dear Harry,_

_I’m writing this to you-- to us._

_Your clearing is happening any second and chances are, if I’m right, you aren’t going to remember any of this-- any of the last twenty years of our life. Read this carefully and know that I’m not lying about any of it. I want the rest of our life to be happy with Nicholas-- they wanted this for us. But I also want you to mourn correctly. Don’t let them lie to you._

_They aren’t your parents._

_They aren’t your sisters._

_They call you Eddie. That’s your middle name. They are trying to rebrand you as a Clarke to hide their own negotiation with the Bureau, but your last name is Styles. You don’t remember Mom much, but you just know she loved you. I wish I could tell you more._

_Zayn is an employee of your guardian’s business, but he’s also your best friend. Listen to him when he tells you it’s going to be okay. He’s usually right-- at least has been so far._

_Niall is also your friend. Ask him to teach you how to sew again so you can get to work in the tailoring shop. He just got married and lives in Ireland. He’s going to leave you again to go home, but it’s going to hurt less this time._

_Liam is Zayn’s Betrothed. You met him yesterday. He’s kind and gentle and he listens to you. He’s going to seem the least familiar-- if you have any recollection at all-- but don’t be scared of him. Save your energy._

_Get out of the house. Get enough money to leave. You really want to see Holmes Chapel. That’s where we were born. Go home, Harry. For both of us. Even if you go there to die, let us be buried in the St. Mary’s cemetery. Right on the hill. You read about it once. You’ve never told anyone, so it’s up to us to remember._

_You made a friend yesterday. It was completely accidental, but he’s the only one who understands. It’s like his entire life is meant to mirror yours. He’s been cleared more than once and has told you not to worry. Even if you forget, he won’t. He’ll watch after you, just look for him._

_He let you smoke a cigarette-- and it was terrible-- but it unlocked a strange joy in you. It was like remembering how to laugh. Like you were admitting happiness to yourself after a long time of needing permission._

_He is the permission._

_You don’t know his first name, but he knows yours. Listen for it when he calls._

_You never met Louis, but I’m sure it’s for the best. He wouldn’t want to meet you how you are now. There is nothing to recognize. You’d be strangers forever, but at least remember his name. He’s spent the last eight years with you. You loved him once._

_Don’t forget him. Or yourself._

_Harry Edward Styles_

Harry folded the letter and tucked it inside the pocket of his suit jacket. For the procedure, he’d be asked to remove his jacket, hanging it over the back of his desk chair before sitting down. Quickly, with his fading pen, he scribbled _jacket_ on the inside of his finger, not leaving his own curiosity up to chance. In the deepening emptiness that occurred after a clearing, Harry didn’t want to be held directly responsible for letting himself down.

“Are you ready, H?” Zayn poked his head into Harry’s room slowly. “I can stall if you need more time.”

“I think I’m ready.” Harry said. He had no other choice, but at least if he sat willingly, he wouldn’t be tied down.

“Do you need any help?” Zayn asked. He moved slowly, having come up to offer Harry comfort, but hating to become the facilitator.

“No, no. I’ve got it.” Harry said, standing and grabbing his chair by the armrests. He walked it to the middle of the room, setting it down facing the window, back to the door. Most days his room felt closed up, but right then Harry felt particularly stranded. He looked up from the chair and luckily found Zayn still in the doorway, watching him. “Would you stay with me?”

“Of course. Let me just get everyone up here. They’re waiting.” Zayn thumbed down the stairs.

Harry stood beside the chair, carefully hanging his jacket over the back. He twisted the back of his brooch and pulled it from his lapel for the last time. After a few moments, Zayn returned with the crowd. Catherine and Martin came in first, taking their place by the window. Zayn followed behind, but stayed by the door. He held it open for Father Byrne, a frail middle aged man in clerical collar and surgically white robe. He carried a small kit in one hand, a Bible tucked into his arm.

“Hello, Father.” Harry said, bowing his head.

“My son.” the priest placed his kit by the foot of the chair and took Harry’s hands. “You’re ready.”

“Yes, Father.” Harry turned his hand over and allowed Father Byrne to take his brooch. Two weeks to bless and melt it down into his wedding ring. It’d probably burn his hand when Nicholas slid it over his finger.

“Someone is well prepared.” His smile was fond and proud. He had been conditioning Harry since he was old enough to speak. “God may leave you, but the Spirit shall remain strong within you.”

“That’s promising.” Harry said weakly, looking over his shoulder at Zayn. He already had tears forming in his eyes.

“Sit down, boy. Let’s begin.”

“D-Don’t I have to do something else first.” Harry panicked, gripping the back of his chair.

“You’ve said the Last Prayer, have you not?”

“Y-Yes, Father.”

“Then there is nothing left to do. Your fate is determined. You must greet it bravely.” Father Byrne opened his kit, shelves rising and unfolding horizontally.

“Bravely… Okay.” Harry stepped to the other side of the chair, but stopped before he sat. “Zayn, stand closer. I-I’m scared.” There was no more shame in admitting it anymore.

“Darling, I can hold your hand--” Catherine started. Guilt never sounded so apologetic.

“I want Zayn.” Harry said, holding his arm out. “I trust him.”

Harry was going into his new life without lies. It might be his only chance to remember the truth he’d hidden under them.

Zayn took his hand and guided him to sit in the chair. Once situated, he held his left arm out to the priest, resting his elbow on the armrest. Father Byrne rolled his sleeve up, his fingers prodding the skin around his Engraving carefully. Harry winced despite the pressure being gentle enough to be mistaken for a caress. His right hand squeezed Zayn’s tightly and constantly. It was comforting, and only would be for the next few minutes. After the priest cut him, all recognition of the warmth in Zayn’s face would dissolve into invading fear and strangeness.

“Okay, are you ready, Edward?” Father Byrne, dipped his fingers into a small bowl and smeared Holy Water over his Engraving. A final blessing. The Last Rites of a relationship he’d never get to have.

“Yes, Father.” Harry nodded. He turned to Zayn, looking at him and trying to convince him he was calm.

“ _I’m sorry_.” Zayn mouthed. He placed both hands on Harry’s.

“Then let us bow our heads in prayer for the life of the devil connected to you. May he, Louis, be damned to Hell for his appearance on your skin. May this cleansing and clearing set you forward with a new life and love. May God love and keep you until both you and your new Betrothed pass. In the name of the Son, Father, and Holy Spirit, Amen.”

“Amen.” Harry muttered, clenching his jaw.

In a flurry of panic, Harry’s vision became like staring through a lake; all the colors were unfocused and bleeding together in undetailed spheres. He squinted to try and add definition to the priest and his moving hands. A small knife, a ruby encrusted dagger, balanced delicately in his hand. Harry squeezed Zayn’s hand and inhaled sharply, eyes burning but afraid to admit fear.

The dagger’s initial contact was so sharp, it almost felt like nothing. The pain was white hot, color draining from Harry’s face in a rippling chill down his spine. Every nerve in Harry’s body tried to fight the pain, fight the separation, but the priest kept cutting.

Harry stopped squinting in the flash of pain, but even in the haze, he could see the cut growing. He could feel the blood running down his arm, pooling in the palm of his hand. His chest felt like it was collapsing, his breath pouring out of him in a liquid cry for help. No one else in the room spoke or moved to help Harry. Only Zayn remained by his side, trying to soothe him over the sounds of his screams.

The priest stopped after every letter of Louis’ name was split in half, a thick stream of blood covering most of it. Harry couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t see his own hands anymore. He closed his eyes and waited, knowing the moment of blissless, living death would overcome him. He couldn’t bear to even look at Zayn’s face, to try and remember him one last time.

Numbness started at Harry’s feet and rushed up to his head, like he’d been plunged underwater. It was ice cold and Harry didn’t think he’d ever get warm again. Even with his eyes closed, Harry felt the entire room drain of color, leaving a stain of gray over him.

A needle prodded at Harry’s arm, trying to stitch him up and about to start pricking his new spouse’s name into his skin.  After the first letter on his right arm, the new ripple of pain incapacitated Harry. He found the urge to pass out, hand still clinging to Zayn and lips trying to hold the name of his soulmate, familiar and warm, hoping to remind himself the moment everyone left him in solitude.

“You’re almost done.” Zayn said, placing his other hand in Harry’s hair. “Almost done, almost done. Don’t you faint on me. Stay with me.”

“I want to.” Harry sighed, eyes fluttering but remaining open. “I’m so tired.”

Zayn spoke again, but the words vanished behind a veil of muffled ringing. His bedroom walls drifted away and left an extended view of his opened window. The sky was dark and hopeless, stretching out without a horizon. Harry no longer felt like he was sitting but instead levitating over, or in, a vast numbing ocean. The waves were breathing; they matched his own.

“Harry! Harry, hey!”

“D-Did I pass out?” Harry gasped.

“No… No. You were talking to me the whole time.” Zayn said quietly, eyebrows furrowed. He ran a hand over Harry’s hair, pulling his bang back. “You just kept muttering that you were sorry… to yourself.”

Out of body experiences were worse when heard about secondhand.

“I’m okay.” Harry said, checking the face of his guardians and the monsignor. “Thank you, Father.”

“Have a blessed day, child.” Monsignor Byrne stood and bowed to Harry only. “Mr. Clarke, a word if you please.”

Harry sat up in his chair, straining to keep his devastating emptiness from echoing into the room. Martin didn’t even look at him. With the business transaction completed, Monsignor’s matrimonial duties were on request next. Catherine followed her husband out, but at least spared a glance to Harry. She turned a second time and he assumed that one was for Louis.

“I should get downstairs too.” Harry couldn’t be in his room any longer. He could still feel Louis hovering around him, clinging to the curtains and the sheets like smoke.

“You should sit still until I get you some food.” Zayn said, pointing at Harry.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten in about a month. Shut up and let me get something from the kitchen.” Zayn placed a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, pushing him down into the seat.

Harry couldn’t have stood if he wanted to. His bones were weighted differently, it seemed. Even though he’d only ever be a half, everything felt double: his exhaustion, his despair, his hopelessness. It was like he was trying to sink into the floor. Without Zayn, there was nothing to soothe him. The room was ringing. Harry was completely alone for the first time in his life.

Harry closed his eyes and prayed he’d feel a lick of water against his neck or even a drop on his cheek. The water was a constant threat of silent consumption. The ocean could take him and drag him out farther than humans had ever explored. He could be erased all over again, but at least Louis would be without harm.

The best Zayn could offer after a quick run around the crowded kitchen was a three-quarters empty jar of peanut butter and an iced tea spoon. He presented it with an embarrassed shrug, kicking the door closed behind him as he unscrewed the top. Before Harry could properly adjust in his seat again, Zayn was shoving the jar and spoon into his hands. Harry had never eaten out of the jar before, or really had had much food autonomy before in his life, and spent a minute staring into the jar.

They didn’t speak as Harry tried to scrape up a spoonful. Zayn sat on his bed, busying himself by straightening the blankets beside him. Harry put a spoonful in his mouth but could only seem to taste the spoon itself. It was flavorless, the only notable thing confirming Harry was in fact eating was the texture between his teeth. Harry was full after one tiny spoonful.

“What were you seeing?” Zayn asked finally, reaching to take the jar from him; he didn’t want Harry extending his arm yet.

“Water. A lot of water. I thought I was drowning. I think.”

“Is that usual?” Zayn said. He repeated Harry’s word quietly, as if scouring for meaning.

“Recently, yeah. I don’t know what it means. I never used to feel it.”

“Do you think it’s related to your Visions?” Zayn wasn’t sure if his guess had any gravity and neither did Harry. He felt like their conversation was being filtered through a wall, taking a few days to fully reach Harry. His tongue felt heavy and his teeth were in a different place than he remembered; his words slid around in his mouth before finally tumbling out to Zayn.

“I’ve never been in the ocean.”

“So, it’s not a memory.” Zayn said.

It occurred to Harry only then that none of it was genuinely a memory of Harry’s. He’d never been in water deeper than a bathtub. How could he be feeling water up to his chin, waves quietly lapping up his neck, and seemingly remember a time when he was drowning? They were surrogate memories. Louis, wherever he was, was still linking his heart and its most powerful memories to Harry. Harry had felt it most strongly at his clearing considering it was their last moments together. Their shared veins had been cut and they were alone.

“I’m not sure that’s comforting.” Harry slurred, shaking his head. “I can’t remember it now.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Zayn stood and crouched in front of Harry, placing his hands on his knees. “Just rest now.”

“Not sure I can do anything else.” Harry said. He felt nauseous and uneasy. He was overcome with the urge to sit down despite already being in a chair. He ran his hand over his arm, down to his fingers. He gripped them, like the echo of a warmth he’d never feel.

His skin felt broken, like there was something burrowing underneath it. Harry was ruined, and knew it. Nicholas wouldn’t want to touch his hand now.

“You know Liam was being serious about taking you to the ocean.” Zayn said softly. “He said he’d go whenever you want.” The offer echoed Nicholas, the tinge of secretive joy digging deeper under Harry’s skin.

“Zayn, what’s a honeymoon?” Harry asked, head lolling to one side.

“It’s a vacation after you get married.” He answered without a shift in tone. “Why?”

“Nicholas said we won’t be talking on it.” He tried to pick up his head, his tongue feeling thicker in his mouth. It was like he hadn’t swallowed the peanut butter.

“He’s uh, he’s talking about sex.” Zayn said with a scrunched and furrowed expression. “Y-You don’t have to do that on your honeymoon, if you don’t want.”

“Sex.” Harry repeated. No one in his house ever spoke about it-- Harry barely knew it was a real word people used and wasn’t some unspoken term only seen written in books. “With Nicholas?”

“It’s not a requirement, obviously. You aren’t property.”

“I sort of am.” It was Harry’s only coherent thought. “Adopted me to neutralize their merged families. Didn’t do it for me.”

“W-What?” Zayn said leaning forward on the bed. “What was that?”

“Catherine. She’s been cleared.” Harry held his head up with his hand, neck still trying to let it hang down to his chest. His eyes had problems focusing, but Zayn was clear enough to see his confusion warp into disgust. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” He said, reaching over and touching Harry’s knee. Harry only watched it happen; he couldn’t feel it. “Hey, while I was downstairs, I did see something that might make you laugh.”

“Yeah?”

“Liam’s friend from the pub is here. He’s been on the patio in the damn cold for about an hour. Avoiding Martin and Catherine, but enjoying the beer apparently.”

“He’s here?” Standing on the patio, overlooking the hills.

“I guess when the paper advertises your birthday, a few strays might pull up in a borrowed suit.” Zayn held his hand out to Harry. “Want to tell him to bugger off?”

“No. No, he’s fine. I want to say thank you.” Harry put his hand in Zayn’s and slowly pulled himself back to his feet. He felt wobbly, but at least not seasick.

“He’s still here.  Everyone is.” Zayn said, brushing off Harry’s shoulders. The touch was direct, but didn’t quite reach Harry completely. “Are you ready?”

“Can I say no?”

“You can, but only for another ten minute maybe.”

“Then let’s just go.” Harry took the first step forward to the door. He looked over at his embroidery, at the hours he’d spent sticking and stabbing aida to suppress the prickling under Harry’s skin, the one that got his fingernails to dig and scratch over unblemished skin. It wouldn’t mean anything; he’d feel nothing now.

“Don’t you want to roll your sleeves down?” Zayn suggested, gently reaching for the blood soaked and folded sleeve.

“No.”

Zayn swallowed his response and slowly held a hand out to Harry. With established balance, they crossed the room and started on the stairs. They didn’t speak, didn’t try and ignore the mutilation of Harry’s soul. They let the silence speak loud and clear.

The foyer was packed with everyone from the party. His guardians were still missing, as was Father Byrne, but the businessmen from the dining table were in full, bright attendance. They shouted his name-- his wrong name-- and began cheering. The blood coiling into the gauze around his arm was gawked at and admired. It was a badge of honor, a battle wound for a war Harry had no intention of fighting. He didn’t want the award. He wanted the surrender.

Someone grabbed his arm as he stepped onto the landing, looking for the stitching under the gauze. Zayn shoved them away and told the entire room to take a step back. No one listened. A new hand grabbed Harry’s wrist in the moments after Zayn’s rejection, pushing his friend away from him. Harry looked up-- bleary eyed and dryly whimpering-- only to see Nicholas again.

“Hello, dear.”

“D-Don’t touch me.” Harry muttered, trying to pull his hand out of the grip. He was still kept pure, hand kept untouched, but he was still trapped. His words were loose and slippery on his tongue. “Don’t.”

“Let’s get you some water.” He pulled Harry through the crowd. It was like being in the pub all over again: rambunctious adults cheering over a game of terrible target practice. Harry was the perfect bullseye.

“I want to sit down.” Already, Harry felt lightheaded. Everything felt wrong.

“Let’s get you to the kitchen. I feel like you’re starving.”

“Sit. Please.” Harry pulled his left arm harshly in Nicholas’ grip. His muscles tensed and he could feel his stitches gasp under the tension. A new swelling of blood appeared on the gauze, oversaturating it. It began to run under the edge, lining his elbow. “Nicholas.”

It was then Harry realized he wasn’t speaking. The words weren’t coming out; they were just long groans, his lips unable to part and jaw heavy and immobile. It was completely incoherent and being held by a stranger was somehow scrambling his brain more. His house moved past him in a blur, his feet feeling stationary.

Nicholas pulled him into the kitchen and around the counter. Harry leaned against it, words still new on his lips. Nicholas was digging a glass out of a cabinet and holding it under the faucet.

“Want me to hold it for you?” He wanted to help, wanted so desperately to be Harry’s husband. His hand had released Harry’s wrist to hold his hip carefully instead. He was enclosing into Harry’s personal space, speaking as if they were the same. They would never join-- _rejoin_. They weren’t made of the same things. Not the same soul, not the same love.

“Hey, give him some space, yeah?” Niall stepped out from the other side of the counter and grabbed the glass from Nicholas. “He’s still in shock.”

“I’m trying to help.” Nicholas did as he was asked but defended his logic.

“I’ve got it from here.” He said nodding. Nicholas receded silently, hazel eyes tracing the limp confusion on Harry’s face. “How are we feeling?” Niall touched his side to balance Harry, but was quick to not let his hand linger.

“No.” Harry croaked out. His words were materializing finally. His consciousness came in waves, his exhaustion deciding when it would hit. It seemed to hold out when the presence around him was worth stomaching.

“Yeah. Yeah, I expected that.” Niall held the glass up. The water was hypnotizing. Harry breathed with its wobbling. “Want any water or are you feeling… out of body?”

“Yeah.”

“I asked two questions, buddy.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Let’s sit you down somewhere.” Niall looped his arm around Harry’s waist and hoisted him to his feet.

He practically carried Harry back through the kitchen and to the laundry room. It was small and dim, but as the door closed it was the most silent room in the house. Harry had been traded from the possession of three men in less than five minutes, but he was glad to finally stop. The cold metal of the washing machine was a beacon to his frayed nerves. He could feel after all. It was just all cold.

“Liam’s friend is here.” Niall said, lifting Harry and getting him on the top of the machine. “He came to wish you a happy birthday.”

“I heard. Snuck in.”

“Did a pretty good job too.” Niall placed his hands on Harry’s knees and watched him wobble on the stationary machine. “Said he belonged to some American family-- everyone bought it. He’s been asked if he’s got a wife twice since being here.”

“They like him.”

“They do! They really do. He’s got that personality, I guess. I think he’s charming. Bit of a shit but charming.” Niall laughed. “You pick pretty good friends, I have to say.”

“I didn’t pick him. He showed up. Barely had all my clothes on.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I should thank him.” Harry tried to sit up but was pushed back.

“I can get him if you want.” Niall offered, lifting his hands. The distance between them felt miles apart. “Let me grab him.”

“No. I don’t want Catherine to notice he’s here. I can go.” Harry shook his head. Niall braced Harry up and held him back with firm hands. He silently resisted, looking at Harry with pursed lips.

Harry looked a disaster, he knew. His eyes still weren’t entirely open or centered on the same object. His skin felt both pale, flushed, and burning all at once. He thought his bones were rattling under his skin with every move and he felt he was shrinking without any warning.

Harry was surviving his own death, so Niall just let him go.

“Please don’t do anything stupid. Sit down and just say thank you.” Niall eased Harry onto his own feet and helped fix his shirt sleeves. He kept them up but away from the blood now beading and threatening to run down his arm. Harry wiped it on his side and tried for the door.

In the darkness, the silence of the laundry room offered Harry calm protection. He felt so stranded, and knew he would be the minute he was swarmed again. He just wanted to reach the surface of the water. He was reaching, just as he was reaching for the doorknob, but knew the tunnel of light was slowly disappearing. The crowd that greeted him again was like a push to his chest. It felt so tight as he tried to greet strange faces and answer formal questions. All he wanted to do was scream. The boiling pressure inside of him needed a release, a strong hiccup or long sob to rattle his bones one again, and maybe wake him up.

“Edward! I didn’t introduce myself yet, I’m Nicholas’ father, Andrew.” Harry had been right before. “Do you think I could arrange a meeting with you, just to get to know my new son?”

“I, uh, I work tomorrow.” It was barely a response, but it did work as an excuse.

“That’s great, I can meet you there! Perfect place for business.”

“Okay.” Harry nodded and pointed past him at the patio door. “Someone. I have someone.”

“Right, busy man. Congratulations.” He shook Harry’s hand, strong and forceful, and Harry jerked his stitches tight involuntarily. The gauze wept down his arm and to his hand. He left blood on the doorknob as he reached the patio.

Tomlinson stood outside. He was leaning against the side railing, staring down at bare shrubs and wilted flowers. As Harry stepped outside-- shirt sleeve still left up and blood slowly staining the length of his arm-- Tomlinson looked up, and in a moment stubbed out his cigarette to hurry to him.

“Harry! How do you feel?” He placed a hand on his back, keeping Harry upright against his pale face and wobbling knees. His hand hovered over the wrapped gauze, trembling. Harry convinced himself it was the cold.

“Like I want to cry.”

“That’s normal.” Tomlinson said quietly, nodding. He smelled like familiar, like menthols again. “I cried for two days actually. It just happens sometimes.”

“I miss him.”

“I-I know you do.” His hand came to rest just below Harry’s cut, wrapping around his forearm. It didn’t hurt. “He does too.”

“How do you know?” Harry turned to stare at Tomlinson, hungry for answers. He never noticed he had blue eyes. It made Harry feel homesick.

“Hey, let’s sit you down. I want to give you your present.” Tomlinson guided Harry down to the garden bench. He sat down beside him and reached under his coat for something wrapped in tissue paper. The sound of rustling paper matched the static in Harry’s ears.

Tomlinson was dressed smartly. He was in a suit, disguised among disguises. Harry knew Tomlinson looked handsome, but no compliments wanted to form on his tongue. Harry just stared at him instead, hoping he’d get the idea.

“Love, you’re supposed to open it.” Tomlinson placed the parcel in Harry’s lap, tapping it slowly. “It’s for you.”

“You don’t owe me a gift.”

“You’re quite right I don’t owe you shit, but it’s your birthday.” He laughed. “You do remember that, don’tcha? Today is your birthday, first and foremost.”

“I didn’t get any presents.”

“Well good fucking thing you know me.” Tomlinson tapped it again. “Come on, Curly. Get in it.”

Harry opened it with one hand, his left arm slowly twinging with ripples of pain. He preferred water. The tissue paper folded back easily, catching in the low breeze of night. The gift was patterned cotton. Plaid of yellow, red, and green covered the creme colored piece of fabric.

“What is it?”

“It’s a scarf, Homeschool.” Tomlinson took it from Harry’s hands to begin putting it around his neck. It came up to his nose and bunched largely around his neck. “You were nearly freezing when we were outside and I figured it comes up high enough you won’t inhale any bloody smoke secondhand. And maybe keep you from trying to bum another smoke from me.”

Harry blinked. “That’s assuming I’m going to be near you a lot.”

“I--I, well, yeah. I’m sure we will be.” He was hopeful and not the least bit confident. “In this together, right?”

“Right.” Harry nodded. “Thanks.” He pushed it down and tucked it under his chin. The warmth was supposed to feel red, Harry could tell and knew it, but his entire body felt an overwhelming staleness. Only gray.

“You’re really feeling the after effects, aren’t you?” Tomlinson muttered, touching Harry’s back. “Can I do anything for you?”

“I think I just really want to lay down.” Harry braced his head up with his hand. Everything felt still. There were no waves, not even at his worst times.

“Do you want me to get your friends?” Tomlinson offered, placing his hand on the back of Harry’s head.  “Z-Zayn is it? Or how about the blond one?”

“No. No leave them alone. They’ve already helped me today. They shouldn’t have to watch over me. I’m an adult now.” Harry shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. The tears were burning his eyes, but didn’t want to start crossing his cheeks.

“You just had major surgery.” Tomlinson said, placing another hand on Harry’s knee. “You aren’t doing this alone anyway. I’m just being kind enough to let you pick your companion.”

“I just want to lay down, but I don’t want to go back through there.” Harry could still hear the commotion rising from behind the double doors. They were celebrating in his absence, perhaps actually celebrating it. Andrew planning his angle of investigation.

“You don’t have to.” Tomlinson said slowly, twisting around on the bench. “I’ll get you in another way.”

“What?” Harry squinted-- as if he’d hear better.

“Mildly unrelated: is there a clear shot from here to your bedroom window?”

“It’s over there.” Harry lifted a weak hand to point around the corner of the house.

“Definitely related: do you trust me?”

Everything in Harry’s world had wilted. Every bone felt as if it had collapsed and the Earth was weak under his feet. Breathing was like gasping in the deep end. There was nothing in the world left to even worry about, but yet, answering Tomlinson truthfully surged Harry alive for a moment.

“Yes.”

“Did you leave your bedroom window open again?” He leaned back and let his eyes scale the house.

“I think so. Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Do you think you could let me take you up the tree? I’ll carry you, just let me get you to bed. Need to rest.”

“That’s stupid.” Harry was no longer in control. He was listening to himself speak and hoping he said the right things. “Why would you carry me up a tree?”

“Don’t you know how the nursery rhyme goes?” He looked at Harry like he was teasing, but whoever spoke for Harry missed it.

“I don’t know any.”

Tomlinson blinked at Harry and pulled the scarf back up over his mouth. “I’ll tell you when you’re older, Curly.”

Harry twisted his head so his nose poked out over the scarf, settling in the warmth around his neck. It was at least better than water. Tomlinson stood and pulled Harry’s right arm over his shoulders, his hand gripping his waist and hoisting him to his feet. If it wasn’t for the quiet grunt as Harry was finally lifted, Harry would’ve worried he really had been whittled away to nothing.

The ground felt sturdier than it had when Harry was standing alone, like Tomlinson wasn’t just a reinforcement beside him, but underneath as well. Tomlinson led them to the three steps that went to the grass at the edge of the patio. Harry balanced himself carefully and made sure to not faceplant or kill them both in a two foot drop. Thankfully, the house’s curtains had been drawn since sunset and they were able to pass by the party inside without ducking or crouching in the grass.

“Okay, let me figure out how to do this.” Tomlinson muttered.

“I do this all the time.” Harry said, looking at Tomlinson with an attempt at amusement. He forgot how to smile for a moment, his mouth twisting at the corners and frowning.

“You? Climbing trees? I somehow doubt that. I heard your mother-- or whoever she is-- talk for about five seconds and I’m almost positive you’ve never been allowed near anything that touches dirt, let alone grows in it.” Tomlinson said, shouldering off his suit jacket. He handed the jacket to Harry, most likely for him to wear, but Harry stood stupidly still as Tomlinson began cuffing his sleeves back.

It was impolite to stare, but curiosity always won over courtesy. Tomlinson’s left arm was exposed to show the rest of his rippling scar. It loosely trailed up his forearm to the crease of his elbow. The scar seemed to bubble and jumble into a spot of webbed and wretched skin where his Engraving should have been. Harry felt like he was standing around a grave, trying to read the name printed of the deceased.

Tomlinson’s right arm was expected, in Harry’s dimly functioning mind, to be exactly the same. Instead, it was covered in tattoos of varying size and execution skill level. The different patchwork pieces melding together into a blanket that covered from his wrist upward. Harry assumed it went all the way to his shoulder.

“You aren’t going to be happy until you freeze yourself to death.” Tomlinson said, taking the jacket from Harry’s hands. He put it over Harry’s shoulders and patted them firmly.

“I’m not shaking.” Harry said, although he grabbed the side of the jacket with his right hand.

“When it’s bad enough, hypothermia means you _stop_ shaking. I’m not taking my chances, Styles.”

“Why are you so worried about me being cold?” Harry tried to laugh, but it sounded like a cough. It was strangled and short in his throat.

“Let’s get you in bed.” Tomlinson said, turning away from Harry. He put one foot on the bottom stump and stretched up to the lowest branch. Harry wanted to argue his question again, but forgot it the moment he blinked. Instead his eyes refocused on his arms.

“How bad did that hurt?” Harry stepped up to the tree and tested the range of his aching arm. It couldn’t reach the branch.

“It was literally acid, what do you think it felt like, Love? Here-- grab on with your right arm and I’ll pull you up.” Tomlinson tapped the branch moving away from the trunk to make room for him.

“All your tattoos.” Harry said, shaking his head. His tongue started to tumble again, his body aching even as he stood perfectly still.

“You’ve got one yourself, Curly. What do you mean?” He said. Harry tucked his cross, his disgraced family marking, from view. They branded him as their own, yet again, without even waiting for his permission.

“You have so many.”

“I like them. Now would you get up here.” He said shortly, slapping the branch again.

“You have to get approved for a tattoo.” Harry said, lifting his good arm to point. “How did you do that?”

“Believe it or not, priests aren’t the only people with skill sets in this town.” Tomlinson said, lifting his eyebrows. “Shocking, I know.”

“They’re nice.” He said.

“What, the priests?” Tomlinson said, cocking an eyebrow. “Love, they just butchered part of your arm off--”

“No.” Harry blinked slowly. “Your tattoos. They’re all… really nice. Beautiful.”

“Oh.” He swallowed his humored remark with quiet shock. “Thank you.”

Harry finally reached for the branch, straining his strength to hoist himself up even the tiniest bit. Tomlinson grabbed his back and tugged him up, somehow maintaining his balance and helping Harry swing his leg over to straddle the branch. His left arm lay limp in his lap as he shifted around and faced outward again. He moved in toward the length of the tree to scale upward with more stability. Tomlinson stood himself on the branch and reached for the next one, climbing higher than necessary only to drop down on the branch by Harry’s room.

Harry barely arrived at the next branch. His chest was heaving and both arms were beginning to ache.

“Do you mind if we just sit here a second?” Harry sighed, regretting every false ounce of confidence that brought him up the tree. He could see his room, but it was slowly beginning to warp and spin with his vision.

“Sitting in a tree?” Tomlinson laughed. “It’s really a shame you don’t know how the nursery rhyme goes now.”

“Teach it to me.” Harry said. He braced his legs out onto the other branch and pushed his back against the trunk.

“Uh, I’d rather not.” It was the first time Harry saw Tomlinson blush. “I don’t know if it would offend your sensibilities.”

“I’ll be fine; I spoke to my future husband for five minutes and he brought up...” Harry paused, not wanting one of the first few conversation between him and Tomlinson to be about a subject he learned about in hushed tones in a church. That subject and the one he dreamed about shamefully with a bitten and near-bleeding bottom lip were completely different. He didn’t want to accidentally conflate the two in his foggy state. “Tried to hold my hand.”

“Oh, how did that go? Meeting him, I mean.”

“How did yours?” Harry asked, leaning his head back. He took a long, deep breath. It became a sigh.

“I said hello. She kissed me.” Tomlinson rolled his shoulders and readjusted on the branch.

“You have a wife.”

“I never married her.” Tomlinson said sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t marry her. I couldn’t.”

“I-I’m sorry.” Harry didn’t know where he’d stepped to hurt his friend. “I understand.”

“No, it’s not what you think.” He muttered, moving and sliding down the branch. He kicked his foot out and rested it on the rooftop by Harry’s window. A shingle finally cracked and slid down to the gutters. “I refused to. I wasn’t made for that.”

Exhaustion was a stronger force than Harry’s curiosity or is ability to be tactful. “So you left her?”

“My Betrothed is a man. Harry.” He retorted, although he looked at Harry with an unexpected softness. Regret and confession tied up in his furrowed eyebrows.

“That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t get it.” Harry shook his head and tried to clear the fog. His words were slow and his processing was slower. “Wait.”

“Why am I telling you this? You’ve had the worst day of your life-- fucking pull yourself together.” He muttered. Half of it was lost to Harry.

“No, explain it to me.” Harry asked, leaning off the trunk to reach for the branch. It was rough on his palm. The sensation was strong, like his hand had broken through the barrier put up in front of him. “I want to understand.”

“No, you’re too tired for this, Harry. This isn’t any of your business. You just think I’m a stranger.”

“What? B-But...”

“Nothing. Come on, I still have to get you out of the cold.” Tomlinson braced his leg under the branch as he leaned forward, arm extended to Harry. “Take my wrist if you don’t want to hold my hand.”

The offer was a product of not only listening, but caring. Nicholas had attempted to comfort Harry with touch earlier, unnecessary and selfish. Tomlinson was trying to help, kind and selfless, but understood the boundaries Harry was tied up in.

Harry took his hand and was glad Nicholas hadn’t been the first one to hold it. He shuffled along the trunk to the last branch and finally onto the roof. They inched the window open and Tomlinson stepped in first, holding out his hands for Harry to grab.

It was exactly how he’d left it. Harry didn’t have the desire to rearrange anything or even revisit the reasons his chair was in the center of his room. He walked to his bed and crawled into his bunched blankets like a pathetic animal.

“No no, I can’t let you sleep like that. Get up.”

“No.”

“Styles. Rise and only momentarily shine, come on.” Tomlinson tapped Harry’s leg with his finger, trying not to poke or push his luck too much. Harry groaned and pulled his arm over his head. “Do I have to do this myself? Fine.”

Harry was startled by a gentle tug on his shoes.  After a slight twist of his ankle, his shoes slid off and fell to the floor. His socks were gently guided from his feet-- and a finger curiously traced the raw spots resting around his ankles. Harry said nothing, not that he could, and the moment passed. The drawers of his dresser were next to fill the silence, Tomlinson digging around and searching for a new shirt for Harry. He couldn’t sleep covered in blood.

“Here, put this on and take off your pants.” He said, throwing a shirt on Harry’s face. “Or at least, promise me you’ll change out of them when I leave.”

“Do I have to?”

“Harry, would you just work with me here.” His name was sharp, but not painful. Tomlinson was trying to dig into him with an unknown pull he had with him. They were just strangers, but Tomlinson was begging like an old friend.

In his half conscious state, one that had been fading since taking the stairs back down to the party, Harry considered the word strangers irrelevant to those with shared experiences. Time wasn’t much of an object when it came to helping heal pain, ironically enough. Pain was the only thing that needed the time, not themselves. It was a strange realization, almost like remembering. His name sounded like a memory on Tomlinson’s tongue. But it wasn’t. Harry knew it was just his clearing, soul bleeding out while his memories bled up to his brain.

Everything seemed like a memory, like he was remembering the exact moments and movements of Tomlinson around his room. It was like his brain was registering everything a half second after: it all seemed old but it was still so new. He could still live in it.

“You keep using my name.” He muttered, rolling onto his side. He trapped his right arm under his side and kept his wrist bent to reach for his buttons. “It sounds nice.”

“You’re really out of it, aren’t you?” Tomlinson sounded worried, placing a hand on Harry’s head and feeling his forehead. “You don’t have to keep fighting it. You can forget all about me, Love. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Harry’s vision began to blur despite having his contacts in. He felt restless but unable to move. He wanted to cry but felt trapped in his own stoic frustration. It was his own promised death, shutting him down from the inside out. His eyes fluttered closed before he could try and support them.

“I don’t want to. I don’t want to let go.” Harry babbled, his tongue feeling heavy. His entire world was trying to abandon him, and only Tomlinson seemed to stay in focus. “Don’t go. Stay.”

“I can’t do that.” He sounded pained. Harry wasn’t sure how he had offended him again. “You’re absolutely exhausted, Styles-- and I’m probably half to blame for it.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry muttered, still trying to shoulder out of his blankets.

“Get some sleep. You’ve got important things ahead of you.” He smoothed down Harry’s hair. His weight left the edge of the mattress. Harry’s eyes couldn’t stay open, but he tried to find Tomlinson’s face. Harry’s head hurt so badly, pounding and throbbing, and Tomlinson’s eyes stayed his only point of focus. So blue. “Past should stay the past-- ‘night, Love.”

Harry thought he called out to him again, thought he was able to find his underlying consciousness and dictate his urgency and fear. Instead, he found himself calling for Louis. He was delusional, only his name coming to mind as Tomlinson climbed back out the window. He was out of his mind, except when Tomlinson turned and looked at Harry one last time. It seemed for a moment that Harry wasn’t losing _anything_. The name settled on his face-- recognition almost-- but with Harry’s vision bending with the light, there was nothing to recognize.

Harry wasn’t sure if it was dreams, hope, or hallucinations when he first gave in. While still faceless, Harry’s feelings of Louis changed. It seemed shorter to Harry now, more lean and nimble. There was joy that bubbled with silent laughter in Harry’s chest. He laughed so hard he began coughing; his dream conjuring smoke to come pouring from his lungs.

After only a few hours of solitude, Harry was interrupted the first time by Catherine, who helped him change his shirt. She was careful around his stitches, gently kissing her fingers and placing it on the gauze. She said a small prayer-- or maybe it was a poem-- in mourning for Harry. He hadn’t forgotten her secret and it seemed she hadn’t forgotten the pain. She eased Harry back down and rested his arm beside him, the shirt tossed on him by Tomlinson now on his body and sleeve loosely resting over his gauze.

She left silently, her voice only emerging to shoo away Martin and other prying house guests. Zayn was included. Harry could feel himself strain against his mental restraints. He remained alone, truly alone, until the moon was high in the sky and the night had dipped to unhealthy temperatures. His window had been left open the tiniest crack. He was too far gone to even shake.

The next intruder was Nicholas. He spoke to Harry clearly, as if their conversation was set to be average. Harry could barely feel his lips. They didn’t feel his own. His legs felt like they were bent at the knee despite being laid flat over the mattress. His chest heaved with every breath and his eyes tried to find the truth in the draining reality around him. Nicholas looked down at him and Harry couldn’t see his eyes. All he knew was that they weren’t blue. They weren’t blue.

He spoke like a husband would. Respectful, dutiful, and benign. He apologized more than once. Awkwardness hung far heavier when there were no rebuttals to his rambling and off-kilter theories of their relationship. He tried to laugh, tried to feel comfortable, with the absent man that lay in front of him. It was great practice, Harry supposed.

After a good night, Harry’s forehead began to burn. The gentle graze of Nicholas’ lips to his forehead felt like he’d been branded. A proper lobotomy performed over legal crimes against God. He wanted to gasp, at least try to scream, but his body lay completely still. It wasn’t until he heard the door close that Harry began to wonder if his eyes had even been open.

The pain continued as if it had become a part of his dream. It seeped deep into him, starting at the skin and rattling in his brain. It was a pulse he couldn’t ignore, a crashing of waves he’d thought he’d drown in. He felt re-purposed against his will. He’d woken up a son, at least a good imitation of one, and had fallen into a hallucination that night of a puppet of a child, fronting a sham marriage without enough agency to even cry.


	3. The One

The moon had finished shifting with the sun when Harry was suddenly ripped from his dream. He flinched just as he thought something was being ripped from his arm. He shot up with a gasp, his hand squeezing the oozing, red bandages around his cut Engraving. The thick, warm blood began sticking to his hands as he tried to cover it. There was too much, seemingly coming from the one, three inch cut. The stain on his bed grew beside him, expanding onto his blankets and his shirt.

The first instinct was to leave his bed, to escape the blood creating a pool around him. This was where he’d drown. He tried to swing his feet over the edge and collided with his end table. It rattled and some of his scattered trinkets fell to the floor.

His entire arm felt like it was burning. It started at the cut itself and snaked out around his elbow and to his fingers. Harry quickly began pulling back the gauze, unraveling it hurriedly and letting it fall onto his lap. Harry smeared the blood away slowly, his fingers catching on a stitch by accident.  Harry wiped his arm with his shirt to find his Engraving still covered and Louis tucked away. Above the stitches, the tops of his Engraving poked out, still trying to shout. The letters seemed darker. God did not take lightly to being spoken over.

Answering the clattering of his things to the floor, a set of footsteps began clambering up the stairs to his bedroom door. Before he could feel his first pulse of fear as he sank back to reality, the door was open.

“Hey, everything okay?” Niall stood in the doorway, fixing his glasses on his nose as he tugged a sweater down with the other hand.

“Niall,” Harry held the the gauze out to Niall. “I think the stitches popped.”

“They what?” Niall walked over and sat by Harry’s side, hands hovering over the drying pool of blood. His vision had cleared but his understanding was still lagging behind. “Let me-- Oh, what happened?”

“I didn’t do anything. I swear I didn’t.” Harry cried, tracing the dagger’s path over his Engraving. There was no blood under his fingertips and no red scratches along his arm. He hadn’t been itching or picking at his skin in his sleep again.

“Okay, I’m sure it’s just from lying on it in your sleep or something.” Niall soothed. He walked to Harry’s bathroom without another word, returning with a small, wet towel and a fistful of tissues.

“I’m covered in blood.” Harry didn’t want to look. They’d really killed Louis.

“I’ll clean you up. Give me your arm.”

Niall placed his hand under Harry’s elbow and carefully ran the washcloth over the stitches. The blood lifted easily but left a stain on his skin. The sensitivity in his arm faded as Niall worked. The stitches were horrific to look at, but at least they were even and clean. Everything proper for his first day at work.

“What time is it?” Harry asked.

“Nearly eight thirty.” He said. “Shop opens at nine fifteen, ya know.”

“I know.” Harry tried to get out of bed but only effectively smeared the blood on his sheets. “Fuck, I better shower. And do some washing before Catherine kills me.”

“Why don’t you get in the shower and I’ll do the laundry. I’m not getting paid so I can be as late as I want.” Niall offered.

Harry eased himself out of bed and took careful steps, checking to make sure he wasn’t leaving a blood print on the floor. Niall busied himself rolling up Harry’s sheets, and Harry was able to slip inside the bathroom without another look. Inside, Harry couldn’t help but fixate on himself in the mirror. His face was gaunt and eyes were tired, heavy circles forming under them. His stitches were pronounced and the skin was swollen ever so slightly. The church was stuck standing in his bathroom, and his stolen childhood branded on his hand by his thumb in a perfect black cross. The church had had him in their grip since he was born. Or maybe God had just lost control of him, too many extraneous factors cutting him off from the rest of his life; the accident hadn’t been Harry’s after all.

Harry turned away and started the shower, body aching and hands shaking. The world was still drained and masked in front of Harry, but a hidden, quiet part inside him felt shrinking loneliness. He could feel Louis, or maybe Louis could feel him. But it was faint. A pitter-pattering of life against the chilled, stunned tops of his hands and cheeks. Someone was trying to hold him. There was still life in him after all, but he wouldn’t be allowed to keep it. It was a phantom.

This was it. The rest of Harry’s life, waiting in the distance and completely unfamiliar. It’d morphed into a stranger when he wasn’t looking-- when he was busy deciding to marry one.

* * *

Harry’s hair was still wet and drying in uneven layers, as he heard his guardians and Niall downstairs. He couldn’t hide in his room much longer. Before putting on his average-colored suit jacket, Harry bound up his stitches and his new Engraving and tucked his St. William necklace behind the buttons. In a literal blink, Harry had removed the contacts he’d fallen asleep in and dropped them into the trash, grabbing his glasses instead. Lastly, Harry shouldered on his suede jacket and looped his birthday present around his neck.

His chair and suit jacket were still sitting in the middle of the room. There were notebooks and Bibles and personal things Harry was nervous to leave behind for the day; anyone could rationalize reading their contents without Harry in the house to guard his secrets. He had no choice though; he didn’t have the time to bring the past with him. Instead, Harry reached under his bed and felt for his small sewing satchel and threw it over his shoulder. With the embroidery hoops, tangled string, and aida, maybe there would the promise of harmless work.

Harry looked around one last time and said goodbye to the past two decades of his life kept hidden inside. Part of him wanted to feel loss, felt he needed to start some sort of grieving, but there was also a secret shame inside of him that was excited. Part of him that felt this change of pace could mean a change of luck. There was something promising about danger; change was imminent.

Harry thudded down the stairs, announcing and setting the tone of disappointment before anyone could see his face. He could smell breakfast as he swung around the stairs, his bag slapping him on the side. Niall was the only person sitting at the table, Catherine standing in the kitchen with Martin. He was pouring coffee and Catherine was joyously chuckling to her husband-- her feigned Betrothed. Married in two weeks and sending Harry down the aisle in just as short amount of time-- just about kicking and screaming.

“Good morning, Eddie! Come here and get your breakfast, darling. I want you all fed for your first day at work.” She was back. She was Harry’s mother again. It was like all of it had never happened.

“I’m not hungry.”

“She’s cooked a whole hen house worth of eggs, you better have some.” Niall teased, reaching to pat Harry on the arm as he passed.

“I’m not hungry.” Harry repeated.

“We know that’s not true.” Catherine said quietly. “Get over here.”

“Yes, Mum.” Harry reported behind the counter to receive his breakfast plate. It was warm in his hands, covered almost completely in scrambled eggs, the corners framed with triangles of toast. Truthfully, it looked like the best thing Harry was ever going to eat. His stomach felt collapsed.

“I didn’t want to give you any meat since it’s been a couple weeks. Have to be easy on your stomach.” Catherine touched his taut and shrunken torso and smiled. She seemed surprised when her hand had to keep reaching to touch his skin. “Maybe you should have some more.”

“Don’t be guilty now.” Martin said firmly. “The boy will eat what he eats. If he wants to be weak and hungry, so be it.”

As if choice had anything to do with it.

Harry walked to the table and slid his plate off his hand and in front of his seat. He slung his satchel onto the tabletop and some of the embroidery hoops rolled onto the table and into Niall’s coffee cup.

“Working overtime?” He said, gently placing it back in his bag. His fingers traced the hoop, remembering an old hobby.

“Something like that.”

“You been scratching again?”

“No.” Harry said hurriedly, eyes darting to his guardians. “I think the bleeding is more of a concern at the moment.”

“You’re practically my brother; everything you do is of concern to me.” Niall chuckled, reaching over and nudging Harry’s fork. Harry felt like a burden when Niall came too close to being his sibling.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“I made friends-- a friend… I’ll be fine when you go back-- and Zayn gets married.”

“Do you mean the literal criminal Liam knows?” Harry felt caught, having Niall know exactly who he was talking about. Tomlinson felt like he should’ve been kept a secret, like admitting Harry had trusted a stranger so soon was blasphemous.

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with him yesterday.” Harry quipped.

“Oh, I don’t have a problem.” Niall said. “I’m just surprised you two clicked so well. You met him at the pub and then he stormed your party.” Harry blinked, trying not to give away every secret laugh he’d had with Tomlinson. “I know I was never that good at making friends right out of lockdown.”

“I’m not.” His friendship with Tomlinson was a freak accident, and a miracle of patience, honestly.

Niall rolled his eyes and lifted his mug, taking a long sip to silent Harry’s rebuttals. The conversation was closed and Harry was left to reconcile the fact he might actually not be half bad at talking to strangers-- or some second answer. The hunger twisting his stomach was distracting and weakened his logical reasoning; the only thing he could think of while staring at his food was that _maybe_ God had something to do with it.

Harry shut his own foolish thoughts down with a forkful of eggs and bite of toast. The eggs were thoroughly scrambled and wonderfully warm. He chewed slowly and let his eyes close as he realized the longest period of suffering in his life had momentarily ended, and he had about thirty other forkfuls until it would start back up.

“You ready for work, Edward?” Martin asked. It was the first time he’d ever been addressed directly by a name.

Harry gulped and tried not to choke. “Yes, sir. I know I have an appointment today. Already have some work?”

“You do. You’ll do well.” It was a compliment, a genuine admission of pride. It was all because Harry had done what he was told. He’d made them safe and officially legal in the eyes of the law. The Bureau would now no longer hover or investigate his finances, as Harry was sure they had-- he’d have to ask Zayn. Harry’s marriage would boost the company, the family, and Martin’s ability to relax. In two weeks, he’d put an end to habitual worrying and tie up their business deal once and for all.

“I have to go meet Malik at the bank today, starting to consolidate assets. You’ll walk him to the shop, won’t you?” Martin seemed to genuinely be asking Niall for the favor.

“I will, of course.” Niall nodded and reached over the table again to pat Harry’s arm. “I’ve got the keys, after all.”

“Oh! Remind me to make a set for you later this week, Edward.”

“He’ll need a house key too.” Catherine added. Harry would get a key to his own cage if only to give the ability to be out working late nights and come home when his guardians were soundly asleep.

“Why? He won’t be here long.” Martin said, hurrying around the counter to the other room. He emerged with his briefcase and coat. “He’ll be moved out by this time next week.”

Harry finally choked. He coughed and leaned over the side of the table, ready to vomit what he’d just barely dodged inhaling. “I’ll _what_?”

“Mr. Shaw is meeting with you today, yes?” Martin shouldered on his coat like the conversation was easily had in shorthand. “He’ll brief you.”

“Brief me?” Harry repeated under his breath. Telling Harry his future shouldn’t be treated like reading back the minutes of a previous meeting; it hadn’t _happened_ yet.

“See you for dinner.” Catherine called after her husband, waving. Harry caught a glimpse of her Engraving-- _second_ Engraving-- on her arm. The priest’s handwriting had been delicate and thin, Martin’s name sitting bashfully clear on her skin. Her lack of choice aching under Harry’s own skin as well.

“I want to go now.” Harry said, pushing his chair back.  His plate was still mostly full.

Harry hadn’t disrobed from his winter clothes, only having to pull his scarf up over his nose to declare his departure from the house. Catherine looked confused, finally walking to sit down at the table. She began to speak, to question where Harry was off to, but stopped the moment she wanted to address him by name. She placed her mug down on the table, slid into her chair, and nodded with painful understanding. Their relationship wasn’t going back to how it was. Harry lost two mothers in the lifetime it took him to understand he never really had one to begin with.

Niall guided Harry back out through the house, trying to diffuse the tension attempting to strangle him. He opened the front door for Harry and started him down the front path to the gates. His steps echoed the night previous, sneaking out for rebellion, but they were weak this time.

The sun was barely above the horizon, but sent a glare over the entire town. It hurt Harry’s eyes, but he kept his head up and staring straight ahead, almost spitefully. Harry wanted to take every second as it came to him, before it was all taken away. The gate eased open soundlessly, letting Harry escape without complaint.

The town was dead. The sidewalks didn’t even have so much as a piece of trash. Niall and Harry were the only moving force shuffling down the sidewalks. There was a warming affection that had bubbled in his chest when Harry imagined his first day out. All those times he’d passed through town, eyes lowered to the sidewalk, and maybe passing by his Betrothed. Both of them unknowing of the near chance encounter until finally granted permission to follow their own heart back to each other. Or at least, that was how it was supposed to feel.

Harry saw the tailor shop in the distance as they turned onto the side street. The looming sign stared at Harry as he approached. He was forced to acknowledge the mythical Sons his family had been hoping and depending on for twenty years. He was doomed to follow orders rather than his heart.

The shop was silent behind the closed door, like a held intake of breath. Niall reached to close the door as Harry walked to his desk. He rested his bag on top of the pile of papers, letting the straps rest over the sewing machine now resting on top. He sank down into his seat and began opening the drawers, looking for the appointment book he remembered seeing the night before.

“Book’s in the bottom drawer.” Niall pulled up a chair to the side of Harry’s desk. “Nameless appointment should be here within the hour. It’s a floating appointment we’ve rescheduled about four times, so he can’t need anything vitally important. Probably his pants hemmed or maybe measurements taken.”

“Both of those sound really difficult.” Harry muttered, digging through his bag for his hoop and only finding a loose needle-- _twice--_ with the pad of his finger.

“It’s really simple, I’ll help you the whole time. Not going anywhere all day. I’m also the only with keys to your house.” Niall rested his elbows on the desk and peered over to Harry’s work. “Gonna start something new?”

“Might, yeah.” Harry was already stretching the aida over the hoop, keeping it taut to the frame.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Your lighter. Well, Zayn’s now.” Harry said. “Or maybe a playing card.” Two classic symbols of the same vice: Niall’s shared lighter or Tomlinson’s cigarette case.

“What inspired that?”

“I don’t know. Just came to me I guess.” Harry muttered.

“Just have the vision?”

“Vision. Yeah. Something like that.”

* * *

There was a reason the same appointment in the books kept rescheduling: he was habitually late. It was past noon before a single person walked through the shop doors. Harry was unraveling a spool of red floss and parting the thread and Niall was refiling paper into Harry’s desk for him when their appointment finally arrived.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I’ve just had the worst day.” The man was tall, broad shouldered but awkward about his own posture. He was handsome, but Harry really wasn’t sure why. He kind of wanted to just hate him; he’d made them wait over two hours.

“Sorry to hear that.” Harry deadpanned, putting his floss down. “Get lost?”

“Flat out fell in the train car. Looked like a damn idiot.” He was laughing to himself, looking over at Niall who was more kindly looking at the man. He was digging through Harry’s side drawer for his chalk, measuring tape, and pin cushion. Harry just sat in his seat, feeling exhausted and conversationally two-dimensional. That wasn’t to imply, of course, that Harry had any particular skill with strangers previously.

“Are you hurt?” Harry wasn’t hoping. He _wasn’t_.

“Just a banged up arm, I’ll live.” He ran a hand over his elbow. “Nearly missed a frame though-- would’ve split my head clean down the middle. Would’ve gotten myself at least a pitch’s length worth of stitches. Ugh, the _scar_. Can you imagine?”

Harry blinked. “Yeah. They’re real ugly-- stitches.”

“Hey.” Niall said through his smile. “Don’t. Not here.”

“What was that?” The man asked, leaning forward. He had walked himself all the way up to Harry’s desk and towered over them both. There was something Harry fought himself to think was familiar about the stranger.

“What can I help you with?” Harry stood but still had to tilt his head back slightly. He’d only had dreams about men this tall.

“I just really need someone to fix the buttons on a shirt of mine. I don’t know how but literally every single of them is off center. I try to wear it and end up looking like I’m taking myself to daycare rather than the office.” He shouldered his messenger bag off onto Harry’s desk. The shirt he produced from inside the folded leather was horribly wrinkled; it had obviously been sitting in there since he made the first call to the shop.

“Should be easy.” Niall said although he didn’t reach for the shirt. “Ha-- _Edward_ is new but very talented.”

“Edward?” The man repeated, the name rolling around on his tongue. He’d never spoken the name in his life, it was evident, but he looked as though he thought he should have. “I’m Stuart.” His eyes were blue, but not comfortably so. They were the wrong shade.

“Stuart.” Harry repeated. The name felt wrong in his mouth, far less comfortable than any other he’d spoken. “Hi. Let me get started on your shirt.”

“Do you mind if I wait here? I have nowhere else to be, at least for a little while.” Stuart said, already easing himself onto the edge of Harry’s desk. “No rush of course.”

“Sure.” Niall nodded, waving his hand out. “What do you do?” Harry was thankful Niall took control of the conversation and allowed him the solitude to start ripping the stitches of his misplaced buttons.

“I work at the Bureau, actually.”

Harry drove the stitch ripper directly into his thumb, puncturing it cleanly. Harry was afraid he had gone through to his nail.

“Oh, really?” Niall asked. He seemed unbothered; his travel badge was secured around his bicep. Harry tried to pretend he wasn’t beginning to sweat. He shouldered off his jacket onto the back of his chair. His sleeve was already beginning to spread with a crimson warning of the previous night’s lost love.

“I do.” He could sense the discomfort. “Now, _Edward_ , I just, I just don’t seem to know that name of the top of my head.”

Harry was doing nothing incriminating, but the thunderous dread of his impending future and heartbroken ache made him feel impure handling the pristine white shirt. Harry was going to go willingly; he decided there was no fight left in him.

“It’s Harry, actually. Harry Styles.” Harry corrected with unsteady confidence.

“Oh, that’s right! The Clarkes’ son!” Stuart nodded slowly. “Congratulations on the upcoming wedding-- and the business; the worst things in life really work out sometimes, don’t they?”

“Thank you.” The words forced through his teeth painfully. Harry more willing to vomit them up than say it with a smile.

It was strange looking into the eyes of a man responsible for Harry’s life derailment. A man all but personally responsible for the draining exhaustion weighing on his mind. The blue eyes that watched Harry’s nimble fingers were imposters. His silhouette was a phantom of one Harry had thought of before in a passing dream; he never thought his subconscious was warning him rather than promising his future.

“Oh, Harry, let me get you a tissue. You’re bleeding again.” Niall said softly, standing quickly. Harry was working with his thumb held awkwardly upward, not touching any of the clean white shirt.

“I’m fine.” He said, sticking it in his mouth. “Just a poke.”

“No, your arm.” Niall said returning with a bundle of tissues. He grabbed Harry’s left arm and began rolling his sleeve up. “It’s bleeding again.”

“Oh.”

“How long has it been doing that?” Stuart asked, eyebrows raised. He leaned back on the desk and cast a shadow over Harry. “How old are those stitches?”

“Less than a day.” Niall answered. He was unhesitating but worried. “It’s just healing.”

“They shouldn’t be doing that.”

“Well they are.” Niall spat, applying gentle pressure to Harry’s wound. “He’s got a history of uh, hemophilia. Can’t clot right at all.”

“Has this been documented?” Stuart was already reaching into his pocket, eyes searching Harry’s face for any spot of confusion; evidence of only one liar.

“No one reports a lil blood from a ruddy scraped knee.” Niall scoffed. “First time it’s come up since being a boy.”

Stuart lifted an eyebrow to Harry, asking for the truth. Harry was luckily able to lie to this pair of blue eyes.

“It’s true. I--I completely forgot about it, actually. I should probably go wash myself off. I’m so sorry. Niall, will you finish this for me?” Harry covered his arm and stood, hurrying to the back.

There was an office hidden behind a display of ties and mirrors. Harry kicked the door behind himself and gripped the tissue to his stitches. They were still perfectly even and in place, but the swelling and blood felt new and fresh. The wound would never heal.

Being visible meant opening himself up for pointless hope. Blue eyes would haunt him; a ghost he never knew alive to even properly mourn dead. Meeting the names and the faces that had forced Harry into his own personal corner of hell without ever seeing the man he was destined to be in love with was going to be like having a dagger pressed against his chest with each breath. At least he stopped noticing just how far he was from the surface; he’d just started to let himself start drowning.

Just before his tissue became oversaturated with blood, his stitches seemed to tighten and stopped the bleeding. It was like a pulse of his heart, everything freezing and solidifying back into stone. Maybe it wasn’t that it had clotted but rather than he didn’t have any blood left. Can’t draw blood from a stone, could he?

Composed, or at least passing enough to say as much, Harry tossed his tissue and reopened the door. Stepping around the tie display again, he heard a new voice blended with Niall and Stuart’s conversation. It was gentle but direct. Harry tucked both hands behind his back and hoped to appear collected in his moments of severe dissociation. He felt like he was floating.

“Clarke! There you are. Thought you’d forgotten about our meeting.” Mr. Shaw held two arms out for Harry, inviting him for an embrace. Forced extended family wasn’t supposed to make Harry feel good. He wasn’t prepared for that level of complication. He didn’t calculate getting more family, or any family at all, into the equation.

“Hello, sir.”

“Please, it’s Andrew. May I call you Edward?” He asked, clapping Harry on the back. His disillusion translated to kindness.

Harry looked at Stuart, who was looking at Niall’s handiwork, and knew that while honesty was a legal option, it wouldn’t be the respected one. “Sure, Edward is fine. Or Eddie. I answer to just about anything now.”

“Eddie, can we sit down for a moment? Or am I interrupting?”

“No. I’m free.” Harry wasn’t sure if it was a trick question; did a man who owned half the city really interrupt anything, or just simply have his time wasted by others. He waved over to another sewing desk, not wanting to leave Niall’s sight again. Harry sat down in the worker’s chair while Andrew pulled up a separate chair from a nearby desk. He sat at the corner and rested an elbow on the tabletop, conjoining their personal space.

“Thank you for meeting with me, son. I know yesterday was a really busy day for you.” Yesterday. It was all only yesterday. “I wanted to give us a chance to talk without everyone else breathing down your neck. Or even Nicholas. I know he can be a bit overwhelming.” He laughed.

“A bit.”

“He’s just nervous. We all are. We didn’t think Nicholas would ever marry after the news of his previous arrangement… I’m so glad your father was open to our meeting.”

“There wasn’t much to be open to.” Harry said plainly. “I had to be married to someone.”

Andrew blinked, his compliment rejected by mere circumstance. “Right. Well, of course, Maryanne and I are very grateful to have you in the family any way. Glad you chose us.”

“I had nothing to do with it.” Harry said. He could feel Niall’s head slowly turning toward him, trying to strangle him with his own shock. He quickly changed his tone. “But of course, I’m happy everything ended up this way as well.”

“Great.” Andrew said, clearing his throat. “Now I wanted to discuss wedding plans with you, just the two of us.”

“Why us?”

“Well, Nicholas will be your legal guardian of course, but I don’t want to have him stumbling through certain details, now do we?” He let out a hearty laugh and grabbed Harry’s hand in a fatherly gesture of comradery.

“Legal guardian?” Harry repeated, his arm going numb. “He’ll be my husband.”

“Yes, of course. Husband, husband... He’ll be your _husband_ , and some things are just better to go over without him. He’s a perfectionist. He’ll drive you mad.”

“Okay.”

“First things first, we want you to move in as soon as you feel comfortable! We already have a summer home closer to the city that I’m sure you and Nicholas would love to stay in for the first couple weeks before you buy a permanent residence here in town.”

“Move in. Right, uh. I’d like to do that after the wedding.” Harry said, casting a look over to Niall who was keeping a careful watch on the two of them out of his peripherals.

“Okay, that’s fine. Spend as much time as you can with your family while you can.”

“While I can? Where will I be going?”

“Oh, uh, not like that. I meant, the, uh, the honeymoon. I can apply to get you a visa to leave town and expand your travel perimeter for a whole month if you want to do so with Nicholas.” Andrew patted Harry’s arm again.

“Visa to leave town?” Niall said suddenly, turning his head. “He’s got at least the _city_ before he gets in any sort of trouble.”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t know about, Mr. Horan. This isn’t your business. You just work here.” Andrew’s voice was short with Niall, the edges catching and forming a short grumbling threat underneath. Niall’s eyebrow furrowed as he kept eye contact with Andrew. He handed Stuart back his shirt without changing his gaze.

“It’s a contractual marriage.” Stuart said to Niall. “He has no travel width. He’s not allowed to leave the postal code-- not without special permission after the first six months.” He knew the facts, but there was still a slight lift in his voice that revealed there was still something uncertain to him. “But I suppose honeymoons act as an excuse to the cool down period.”

“I don’t care if it’s an excuse. He’s still my concern and I think that’s excessive.” Niall retorted. “His travel perimeter is limited, but mine isn’t. Don’t make an enemy of someone with reach more international than yours.”

“Is that a threat, Mr. Horan.”

“Of course not. But I could if you’d like.”

“Niall, it’s fine. I’ll take the visa. It’s not a big deal.” Harry cut in. The three men were just about standing at each other’s throats.

“It is. That doesn’t make any sense! Travel visa? No farther than the postal code for, what? Six months? I’ve never heard of that.”

“You’re a Natural. You’ve got a travel badge all your own. There is so little you know, Horan.” Andrew spat. “Why don’t you leave us to handle this?”

“Harry, think of yourself, okay? Think carefully before you agree to anything.” Niall said harshly, sitting back down in his seat to finish and send Stuart on his way. He still looked confused, trying to place the sudden exchange of energy in the room.

“What did he call you?”

“Uh, Harry. It’s my middle name.”

“Ah, well. When you _do_ sign the visa and marriage certificate, do make sure to put your real name, Edward. That’s very important.” Andrew said, the sweetness in his voice finally beginning to sound like a threat. He was coddling Harry straight into a snakepit.

“O-Of course. Edward Clarke.” Even with the Law standing at the other end of the room, Harry would soon lose himself to Edward. He’d have to stare at it penned on Nicholas’ skin, hear it in a church echoing around the altar as he stared into wrongly hazel eyes, and answer to it until he was old and gray.

It was only two days prior that Harry had signed his own name for the first time. A day ago that he heard it spoken by a new voice for the first time in four years. Harry Styles was withering away, ignored in favor of his feigned smile.

Hell, he was bleeding out and everyone loved staring.

* * *

The meeting passed in tensed, hushed tones. After Stuart left, very much pleased and far more thankful than he should have been, Niall sat at Harry’s desk and fiddled with the gears in the sewing machine. He muttered and swore and clattered plastic covers on the desk. Andrew continued to cast burning looks over Harry’s shoulder to Niall, but didn’t voice another threat.

He spoke in circles to Harry though: complimented his family while gently digging at Harry’s non-relation to them all. The tone told Harry he was meant to feel loved, but the words sunk Harry further into his seat. He didn’t know who to believe: common sense or the contract being unfolded in front of him. It felt strange having a written and approved piece of paper to ensure freedom.

By the end, Harry wasn’t sure where he agreed to travel after the wedding. It was somewhere far. Probably warm, he thought. Harry just clicked the pen and drug it over the paper where it was asked. Andrew would take care of all of it. He was Harry’s new guardian, at least until he got a husband.

Harry tasted freedom once, and it was frothy at the top and made his depth perception wobble the more he drank it. It was a shitty beer and an anxious first encounter with a stranger-- a friend. Harry sobered up far too quickly for his taste.

Niall didn’t speak immediately after Andrew left. He heard Harry’s pen click. He knew something had ended, but he didn’t want to witness its demise either. Slowly, he turned and walked back to Harry. He placed a hand on his back and eased him back to the present, as much as neither wanted to acknowledge it.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“... Is there anything I can do?”

“Will you take anyone that comes in? At least for a little while. I just want to work on my stitching… If that’s alright.” Harry asked, bracing his palms against the edge of his desk. It pressed against the tender crease of his hand and numbed the urge to itch at the skin along his thumb. And on the back of his hand. And up his arm. And on his leg. He pushed his chair away and reached for his sewing instead.

“Need a minute? I can walk you home.”

“I don’t want to be on my own. I’m fine.” Harry muttered, clutching his bag close. “I just want to work on something.”

“Feeling antsy?” Niall was becoming annoyingly aware of when Harry wanted to start rolling his thumbnail over his skin, peeling it up in bright red patches. It must’ve shown across Harry’s face, a pale distance growing in his clenched jaw and still voice.

“A little, yeah.”

“Want to call it a day?” Niall offered, squeezing his shoulder.

“No. I’m fine.”

“Harry.”

“ _Fine_.”

Harry counted his stitches and tried to distract himself from counting the rest of his days. They had never been numbered before. Sure, he’d had a countdown before-- to a birthday, reluctantly to watch Niall go back to Ireland, and ongoing one to Zayn’s wedding-- but his life would always continue afterward. It was a race to an event and building excitement about the rest of his life he’d get to enjoy afterward. Harry never thought he would see the rest of his life on a calendar. Maybe not literally-- they weren’t going to _kill_ him-- but it was evident that the illusion of freedom he had sitting at his desk job was the only bit he was ever going to get.

Harry had prayed for so long to meet Louis that he forgot to brace himself for what would happen when God blocked him out. There were no actions in place for when he’d have to look into the eyes of a strange man and give himself up to him. His halved soul would rub and grind and scrape against the other half being offered up to him, and Harry would just have to settle. His honeymoon would be spent with his eyes wrenched closed and mind hovering somewhere between reality and the imaginary ocean he’d hope would resurface to drown him.

An ache started in Harry’s chest and began to tickle his nose-- he barely recognized crying in his distant state. He sniffled and Niall came rushing over with a tissue, already trying to wipe his eyes. Harry shook his head and pushed him away, his left arm aching on its own; the stitches were weeping again.

“What can I do to help?” Niall asked, crouching by his side.

“I miss him.” Harry muttered, covering his face. The cup of his palms echoed his hiccup into a squeak that bounced around the empty shop. The loneliness was momentarily comforting. “I’ve never met him and I miss him, Niall.”

“I know.” His hand rested on Harry’s leg, not patting or squeezing him. Just present and listening.

“I thought I was ready, but I’m not… It’s all too real.” Harry gasped and felt his bottom lip crumple. “Two weeks isn’t even long enough to pick a-a location! Or hire a caterer! How are they going to possibly-- _Oh_.”

“It’s been planned a bit longer than we both think, Harry.” Niall was coming to the realization at the same time as Harry, but he tried to keep a calm and understanding tone. Someone had to seem like they knew what was happening. “But that’s okay. Planning a wedding is different than planning your life.”

“Sure doesn’t feel that way.” Harry wiped his nose. His body felt like it was vibrating, like the lost half of a magnet trying to be reeled in. “I just wanted to kiss him. Just once.”

“Do you think about that stuff often?” Niall sat on the floor and rested both his hands on Harry’s knees. It wasn’t accusatory. They might have been raised in different countries and with different first languages, but the baggage with intimacy extended beyond all barriers.

“I know I’m not supposed to.” Harry said, clearing his throat. He felt flush, caught in the act.

“I didn’t say that.” Niall reached for Harry’s hands, holding them in his lap. “You can talk to me about it.”

“No I can’t.” Harry tried to pull his hands away. “It’s stupid. It’s not going to happen.”

“Do you want to know something?” Niall moved closer to Harry and squeezed his hands. His fingers pressed against the soft part of Harry’s palm. The itching disappeared again. “Don’t tell him I told you, but Zayn used to talk to me about this stuff all the time.”

“He did?”

“Of course he did! He didn’t meet his Betrothed until he was twenty-five. You don’t think he used to think about the first time they’d meet? When they’d get to embrace for the first time? You think you’re the only one who wants to get the other half of their soul back?”

“But I’ll never get it back.”

“... That’s true. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t remembering it. I really think those Visions hurt so much because you’re reaching across a previous life to remember them, and trying to recreate them how you last loved them. But then, you see them again and it’s all different, but that’s okay too. And for you, this just means you get to love them again _just_ how you left them, but from a distance.”

“That sounds terrible.” Harry admitted, his shoulders falling.

“What I’m trying to say is that your Betrothed isn’t gone. He’s with you and he’s reaching through to you too.” Niall was so sure, speaking in earnest to a topic he really had no idea about. Niall’s longing had been answered. His other half reached through and was able to grip him.

“You’re right.” Harry had to honor the attempt. If Niall was taking on the burden of talking Harry down, the least he could do was accept the help when it was offered.

Maybe, when they ran into each other again, Harry could ask Tomlinson what he thought of it all. He hadn’t taken on much more than a passing friend. He’d be honest with Harry; he’d tell him to sober up and leave the past behind. Harry refused to let himself dream of a happier outlook. He was already hurting.

“I really think it’s time to call it quits.” Niall sighed, pushing himself back to his knees. “You’re exhausted and you should eat something.”

“I don’t want to go home.” Harry groaned, wiping the last tear from his cheek. “Please, not yet.”

“Oh, we’re not going back to your house. We’re going where I always used to go after work. Well, not the same spot, but same company.” Niall clapped Harry on the leg and got to his feet. “Come on, it’s time for a family dinner.”

* * *

The town was still empty, but far more lively than when they left that morning. There was a feeling of exhaustion hanging over the thatched roofs. All the bustle that kept the town churning had happened while they all had their heads buried in sewing hoops, leaving Harry and Niall to catch the last sigh before turning in for the night.

Harry’s entire arm ached, his fingers needing to be stretched and cracked just to remind him they were still there. It felt like his shoulder was supporting a dead limb. The rest of his body seemed to follow suit; Harry having to drag himself beside Niall. Niall’s new, swift pace was an extra added level of difficulty. His stride was long and even, but a smile lifting his neutral expression. Small family dinner was probably a tradition back when Niall still worked for the company. Niall was returning to a beautiful memory while Harry had his own horrible ones created around it.

Zayn, and now Liam, were a home that Niall never had to travel to. The memories followed him, constant reminders that home may be where he feels the most love, but also that he is loved elsewhere too. Niall had a place he was accepted and welcomed, as well as all his thoughts and arguments. They were all surviving together, some just with more difficult circumstances.

Niall pointed Harry down a street, his stride slowing but keeping intensity. Maybe there was more to Niall’s eagerness than Harry had read. The street was long and without a sidewalk. The two of them walked single file along the union of grass and packed dirt. The neighborhood had reached its peak moment of exhaustion before the rest of the town it seemed. Each house had turned in for the evening, settling in to start it all over again the next day. The closed curtains seemed to offer them the understanding and privacy they needed.  Every house mirrored a similar style but varied in height and overall housing capacity. Niall was headed toward a house at the next far corner that was one story, perfectly square, and could house _maybe_ one person.

Niall knocked twice on the door before pushing it open. He pushed Harry in lightly by his back, letting him in first.

“Hey! Welcome home!” Zayn waved from the kitchen, knife in hand. He held half an onion against his cutting board with the other. “How was work?”

The house was warm, physically and emotionally. Harry was embraced by the deep colors painted on the walls, and the parted curtains bringing in the glow of the thawing trees resting in the backyard. He kicked off his shoes and shuffled his socks across the large area rug, letting himself settle into its plushness.

Niall shrugged. “Really slow which I didn’t expect-- not that we’re complaining.” He eased Harry’s coat off his shoulders and nodded toward the couches waiting for him.

“I’ve been quietly shuffling appointments to give Harry a softer first day.” Zayn said, carefully evening his knife on the onion. “Glad it went well.”

“I didn’t say it went well.” Harry muttered, flopping down on an armchair facing the open corner kitchen. “It was just slow.”

“Who came in-- beside the floating appointment I couldn’t cancel if I _tried_?” Zayn asked. Liam appeared from the other room, a large smile greeting them both but gentle enough to allow the negative conversation to continue.

“Bureau worker. And my up-and-coming Father in Law.” Harry said. “If I guess you can call him that. Seemed more like my handler than my parent.”

“What happened?” Zayn asked Niall, although careful to not cut Harry out entirely. He was disappointed, his attempt to ease Harry’s first day futile.

“Did you know about Harry’s travel perimeter?” Niall said, taking his own travel badge off and hanging it with his coat. He had his own point of conversation prepared.

“It’s smaller, right? All cleared kids are.” Liam didn’t sound the least bit proud of the truth.

“Harry can’t leave the postal code without permission from the Bureau. Not for six months.” Niall kicked off his shoes with enough force to accidentally fling it to the other side of the room. Harry stood to grab it. “Did you know about this?”

Zayn placed his knife down and turned away from them, running his hands under the faucet. Liam took the shoe from Harry and walked it to Niall, trying to start a new conversation.

“Hey, I asked you a question.” He said, stepping around Liam. The shoe was pointed forward, almost trying to even Zayn as the new target. “Did you know about this? Zayn, what did Martin say to you?”

“It wasn’t Martin. Harry told me the other night.” Zayn turned from the sink and wiped his hands on the apron around his waist. Niall turned sharply and looked at Harry with a furrowed brow. Harry returned the look.

“I did what?”

“I wasn’t going to say anything because Harry-- H, you were absolutely rambling and I don’t know if you knew what you were saying.” Zayn curled his fingers into his palm, making a non-threatening fist. “Catherine and Martin were set up. Harry’s one of those special circ babies.”

“So what does that mean?” Niall had blinked and somehow assessed the entire consequence of this sentence on Harry’s life. He looked determined to recalibrate, not spending a moment in confusion.

“I don’t really understand the full extent of it, but Liam and I have been trying to figure it out since you told me. Special circ babies have completely different laws. It’s far different than anything they taught me or Liam in school. I’m so sorry.”

“The law books are pretty cryptic for people that aren’t involved, Sunshine. I’m sorry too. Zayn and I really dug our teeth in, but came up empty.” Almost on instinct, Liam was just another person Harry made feel responsible for his enclosing doom. “We’ll get someone who does. Don’t you worry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Harry muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve had more than enough juggling of my goddamn legal status for one day. I’m not even sure I’m still a citizen for _fucks_ sake.”

A hand rested against Harry’s shoulder, thumb carefully moving over his neck and moving his hair away. “Why don’t you come help me make dinner, H. Come on, I need some help. And I’m sure you’re starving.”

“‘m not hungry.” Harry let his head hang back against the chair.

“That’s a fucking lie. Now get up and help me cut vegetables.” Zayn said, snapping his fingers. “Liam always nearly cuts his hand off, so I need more professional help.”

“Hey, I grow the damn vegetables in the first place.” Liam marched back toward the kitchen with a pointed finger, grin lifting his cheeks and causing his eyes to squint. “Don’t make me put you on the couch again.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Zayn spoke with an unheard caress of softness in his voice. Harry felt like he was intruding as he stood from his chair, but he didn’t want to leave Zayn to cook on his own. He hovered by the dining table as Liam grabbed at Zayn’s waist, tugging on his apron. “I have a knife, baby.”

“Is that a warning, or a threat for the couch?” Liam laughed, carefully wrapping his arms around Zayn’s waist and hoisting his feet off the ground. Zayn quickly placed the knife down and braced his weight on Liam’s arm. He turned and looked over his shoulder at Liam’s smug face.

“You better put me down.” Zayn spoke again with beloved kindness, his lips tight but eyes shining.

“I’m going to strong arm you into respecting my uneven julienning and vegetable garden.” Liam said even though he lowered Zayn back to the ground.

Zayn turned around in his arms and kissed him, their moment becoming enclosed between them and their delicate touches and words. After the initial discomfort of intrusion passed, Harry felt overwhelmed. He’d never witnessed love in action. Reading and dreaming were nothing compared to the soft words of the real thing.

Harry wondered what they talked about when they were alone, when they were scared of the outside world or the future hurtling toward them. He wondered if they even felt that way. He wanted to know the way their hands fit together in the dark of their room, wanted to know how it felt to sleep with both halves of their soul nestled together. It was invasive and perverse to think of such obviously secret parts of his friends’ lives, but Harry just wanted to know if it was real. Love was the only certain thing in the world, and it was involuntarily carved out of his life. His only hope was that it existed elsewhere; God had granted love unto the deserving. God had answered Zayn’s worries with a kind, dimpled smile.

“Got an audience… that _doesn’t_ want to be one.” Niall said with a laugh, joining Harry in the adjacent dining area.

Liam pulled away first, sliding his hands across Zayn’s back as he stepped beside him. Zayn kept his hand resting against his chest-- as he always did, it seemed. It was like he was feeling his heartbeat, reminding himself they were on the same rhythm and wavelength. Harry couldn’t imagine what it would be like to feel his own heartbeat in the chest of a stranger, practically waiting exactly where he’d left it eons ago in another life.

Zayn was still smiling as he looked back at Harry. His eyes fluttered as they blinked back open. “Still help me, H?”

“Sure.” He nodded. “Just don’t, uh, don’t try and lift me up, Liam. I don’t have good reflexes. At least I don’t think.”

“Doesn’t look like it’d be very difficult though.” He teased, tensing his other arm by his side. Zayn hit his chest and tightened his jaw quickly. “Uh. Still not going to do it though, of course! I don’t want to be pulling a knife out of my forearm, thank you.”

“I could probably sew it up pretty good though. Watched the priest do it and everything.” Harry said with a weak laugh. He held his arm out to the group, stained sleeve and all, as he stepped up to the cutting board. There was hesitation before the three of them accepted his joke. Niall laughed first, patting Harry on the back as he walked to the corner cabinet for a mug. Zayn’s laugh was more of an exhale, which allowed Liam the hushed understanding that it really wasn’t a joke. “I should tell Nicholas he’s marrying a doctor.”

The laughter stopped immediately, all three practically choking on their own discomfort. Harry was frustrated with their lack of humor, but also knew it was because they were right beside him in disbelief and grief with his future prospects; they all got to experience love.

“So… You have work today, Zayn? You heard about our day.” Niall said, motioning to Zayn as he stepped away from Liam and tried to busy himself.

Zayn scoffed as he dug around in a cabinet. “Wasn’t supposed to since it’s bloody Saturday. But, I did. And it was absolutely terrible. I worked on one budget sheet for three hours. I called Liam in tears around lunch.”

“He isn’t kidding.”

“It just wouldn’t fucking add up. According to my papers, we’re spending more money than the books say we should be and I can’t find why.” Zayn placed a pan on the stove with a heavy sigh. “I’m going to get _fired_. I’m sure of it.”

“I’ll put in a good word with the boss.” Harry tried his humor again. He was ignored.

“Does it have something to do with the marriage?” Niall suggested, the event twisting his tone. He cleared this throat as his eyes darted toward Harry.

“I thought so too but… typically you don’t _lose_ money in a… uh, _merger_.” Zayn said with a click of his tongue. “I know I’m just some dumbass college boy but we’re spending a third more money than we were like, a month ago.”

“Can we not talk about money like I’m not here?” Harry snapped, dropping the knife with a clatter. “I know I’m being sold off but for the love of _fuck_ I’m still a goddamn person. At least someone should treat me as such!”

The three men turned to look at him, guilt lowering their eyes. Harry liked to think they were all casting thankful glances at their Engravings, untouched and unsewn.

“No one is sell--” Zayn stopped and blinked quickly. “That’s not how the law works.”

“ _Drop it_.” Liam said under his breath.

“I- I will… I’ll be right back. Where did I leave my stuff, baby?” Zayn hurried away, opening a slim door to an adjoining hallway.

“He gets weird when he’s thinking.” Liam said waving it off. “Forgets how people talk sometimes.”

“Being secluded for two decades will do that to you.” Niall said with a tisk. “He’s always been a Nancy Drew, huh?”

“What did you just call me?” Zayn said, poking his head back out, files and books tucked under his arms.

“I said Nancy _Drew_. Called you a sleuth, not a slur.” Niall said with a short laugh. He looked at Zayn with furrowed eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

“Honey, I thought Harry _just_ asked for you to put it all away.” Liam said with a sigh. He took some of the books from Zayn anyway, helping him not drop them everywhere.

“I know. I know. But, I just thought of something and… I want to see if I’m right.” Zayn was hyper focused in a way Harry had never seen. It was off-putting to hear Zayn less open and charismatic, and more like the grade school recluse his parents had made him-- had made them all.

“You’re in the middle of something. Dinner is when we put the work _away_ \--”

“Liam, just let me think this through.” Zayn said, patting the dining table. The books barely rested against the table before Zayn had them open and spreading them over the surface. Harry still hadn’t made a single cut of vegetables. He stood and stared with Niall, eyes squinting despite seeing clearly behind his glasses.

“What are you doing?” Liam sat down beside him, eyes already exhausted looking down at the books. This wasn’t the first time.

“Harry said something about selling--”

“Jesus, Zayn. Not so damn blunt.”

“No no, but hear me out.” He said quickly. “That’s illegal. You can’t do that, right? We read the other day in one of our… here! ‘ _And should the arranged pair decide to procreate, there shall be a single beneficiary to the fortune: a neutral asset to offset the unlawful creation of man_ ’.”

“That sounds really ugly.” Harry muttered, picking the knife up again.

“No, but think about it… _Single beneficiary_. Harry, that’s you!” Zayn pointed at the book as if finding his picture among the words. “Your guardians’ union and creation of your three sisters… That’s considered an unlawful merging of estates.”

“Again. That just sounds like an insult. Not sure if to me or to them.”

“If your guardians split, if something happened to any of them… who gets the estate?” Zayn asked, grabbing a file from under the front cover of an open book.

“My sisters?”

“No, because those two families-- Martin and Catherine’s-- are joined _against_ _God_ , their assets never combined. They’re two halves pushed together, illegally.” Zayn licked his thumb to page through his file faster. “So no child gets to claim of their own parents. _But_ , the neutral asset is the card holder, essentially. The one who can divide to their choosing. They’re selected to be the mediator in case of absolute catastrophe in a family.”

“That’s… me?” Harry wanted to laugh, but it all seemed like a cruel enough joke. “I’m the decision maker? That’s fucking rich.”

“No, you’re the business holder.” Zayn said, his face practically lighting up. “Harry, when they adopted you, you became the sole inheritor of the _entire_ Clarke fortune. You hold all their money. That’s why eventually none of your sisters were cleared-- he must’ve recalculated after asking me-- because why would it matter? They don’t get anything anyway! But you! You’re the richest man in Aspull!”

“No I’m not.” Harry shook his head and looked at Liam, hoping he’d be sharing the same confusion. He was reading over Zayn’s shoulder, not entirely lost. “I’m twenty years old, work at a tailor shop, and am _constantly_ bleeding out-- very slowly.”

“‘ _On the anniversary of the asset’s twentieth year, their acceptance into the family becomes an ownership of family deeds, fortune, and estates_ ’.” Zayn read, tapping the book again. “Harry, you’re fucking rich.”

The Earth became unsteady, but not in a familiar way. It wasn’t a rush of water or even the pulse of dizziness. Harry felt gutted, his own hands feeling like gloves and feet trying to sink into the floor. His vision rejected the clarification of his glasses and unfocused into bright white. He grappled for the counter to ensure he hadn’t floated off, his throat croaking and no words coming up.

“Then what’s all the money for?”

“Probably letting Martin have some stock in the company he’s giving away, since Harry doesn’t know any goddamn better.” Zayn slammed the book shut. “We all fucking didn’t.”

“You mean to tell me, he’s the most important person in that family?” Niall’s laugh was harsh and bitter. “How are they getting away with that? How did they keep all of us in the dark so long? And so _well_?”

“They hate us, Niall. I’m sure that’s not a mistake.” Zayn said. “We had no idea about Catherine’s clearing; Harry was just an act of their good will.”

“Wait.” Harry practically coughed the word up. “You mean to tell me that they only cleared me to create a mega-merger? They killed him for nothing?”

“W-Who?” Liam started, looking around. Zayn waved it off.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.”

For the first time, Zayn’s apology admitted defeat. There was empathy, and even a splash of pity. Harry could feel the weight of their realization fall onto his shoulders. They’d solved it, or at least seen the guided motive, but Harry wasn’t allowed an outside point of view. He was still trapped inside, the others still looking in. Zayn was sorry because it was _over_.

“I-I think I have to go home. I don’t feel well.” Harry knew he’d be walking back into the worse place, but he just needed his bed. He needed to lay down and wake up on Wednesday and be eager to see if his blue envelope came in the mail. He needed another day with Louis alive. It was hard processing this alone.

“No, come on, Harry. Don’t do this.” Liam said, standing up from the table. “You haven’t eaten yet. W-We haven’t even _tried_ to make you feel any better. You can’t leave.”

“Really, Liam, I want to leave.” Harry yanked his apron up over his head. “Niall, can I have the keys to the Clarke’s please?”

“It’s your house too, H.” Niall said slowly, placing the key ring in his outstretched hand. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m walking back home, aren’t I?” Harry wasn’t sure if he meant it as a reassurance or an example.

“Harry, I want you to stay. Please.” Zayn was beside Liam, nearly ready to block the door. “I don’t feel right letting you just go back out like this.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow for work.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Then Church.” Harry muttered, grabbing his coat.

“Harry, wait!”

Harry looped his scarf around his neck, tucking it under his chin before throwing the door open. The voices chased him until he shut the door behind him. Sure, the three of them were the ones inside but Harry still felt like he was shutting the door to his own closed cage.

In the dark, Harry realized just how secluded the estate was. It seemed to loiter over the town, the front gate’s illuminating the horizon like a faulty sun. No wonder Tomlinson could find it so easily. For the ten minute shuffle, Harry felt bad for having accused Tomlinson of far more dubious stalking.

Anyone could have found the Clarke’s estate-- maybe Louis had seen it. Harry wondered if he ever thought about him, hoped Harry was out there searching for him. Louis would hope Harry knew how deeply he was loved, even through a distance they’d never close.

The front door needed three harsh shoves before the lock and knob both granted Harry access. He toed off his shoes, the first time ever needing to leave them by the door in his life. His coat had a future place on the back of his chair in the dining room. Harry’s beeline was disrupted by both Catherine and Martin standing around the table. They were facing the hall, expecting Harry’s arrival.

“Good evening.” Harry prompted, shouldering off his coat. It slid over his stitches, his eye quickly twitching.

“You tell him or should I?” Martin said shortly, not looking away from Harry.

“What did I do?” Harry hadn’t been conscious in the house more than two hours the entire day. What sin had he committed unknowingly.

“I was cleaning your room today, Eddie.” Catherine swallowed slowly. Her arms were folded and hands rested on her hips. Slowly, they uncrossed and she pulled a piece of folded paper from under her arm. The stationary was slightly crumpled and covered in a hurried, sideways handwriting.

Harry had been staring at God’s writing on his skin for so long, he almost didn’t recognize his own.

“Where did you get that?” Harry admitted guilt before he was even accused.

“What did you do?” Catherine’s fingers could barely grip the page, her trembling sending it fluttering down to the tabletop. Harry felt like he’d been skinned alive, every part of him burning, but leaving him out and vulnerable. He’d never known such shame. The shame of admitting himself on a page to be read by people that wanted nothing more than to forget he existed. “What were you thinking?”

For a moment, Harry thought the letter was irrational. He thought he’d fabricated his own emotional distress and trauma in order to leave behind a trail and attract more attention-- more danger. The look of confusion and rage on the face of someone he used to call mother-- someone he used to truthfully say that he _loved_ \-- made every aching part inside of Harry turn numb. Feeling numb at that point felt a lot like feeling fine.

The letter wasn’t a lie. Fear was real regardless of being questioned. Trauma made everything seem upside down. Made everything feel like it was heavy, crashing waves of frozen water smothering him from the inside out.

Harry blinked and placed his coat down.

“Edward, did you meet him? Did you run into this… Lewis person?” Catherine pleaded. “Edward! Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t. I don’t know him.”

“Then why write this letter? W-What were you afraid of? What have you done to this family?” Harry’s reach was far wider than he had thought.

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything! I swear.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Martin snapped. “Citing those friends of yours? What do they know? What are you burying in their names?”

“Nothing! I just wanted to remember who I was…”

“In case we had to report you to the Bureau.” Catherine had lived this lie before. She echoed her own fear she’d long since forgotten-- or at least swallowed.

“But I didn’t do anything! I promise, Mum. I just wanted to come back to this life, if I ever woke up.”

“But what sin did you commit to make you worry?”

Harry wouldn’t dare speak its name. It was a delicate lust, a foolishly lead naivety that craved intimacy with a complementary side of himself. It was loneliness, but technically for his own company.

“I questioned.”

“We taught you better.” Catherine sighed, shaking her head. “We taught you to respect the Bureau’s guidance.”

“And our decisions!” Martin added, pointing his finger firmly on the table. “Mr. Shaw said you weren’t exactly being cooperative this afternoon. What did I _tell_ you, Styles?” The acknowledgement of Harry’s identity wasn’t anything in that moment but a threat.

“I--I’m sorry!” Harry bent to the fear immediately. He knew, but he also knew there was so little he could do. “I’m just scared… What if we don’t…” Harry clenched his jaw, having accidentally been more honest than he’d intended.

“Don’t _what_?”

“What if we don’t get along? We only have two weeks to get to know each other and--”

“Like each other? I’m letting you marry one of the richest sons this town has ever seen, and giving you life that will keep you placated and comfortable until you’re gray-- one you _never_ should have had a part of anyway, you orphan brat-- and you’re worried you two won’t fucking _like_ each other?” Martin was livid, his entire plan fraying and going to pieces as Harry began fretting the ideas between his nervous fingers, rings clicking.

“I--I just want--”

“You want to be selfish!”

“Martin.” Catherine said, reaching to grab her husband’s shoulder. She knew the worry on Harry’s face; it still wore deep on her own. “He’s just a boy.”

“He’s _our_ boy. And he’s going to give us all up to the bloody church.” Martin slammed the table and Harry stepped back frantically, gripping his arm tightly and pressing his finger into his stitches. “I won’t have this plan go sideways over a fear.”

“Martin,” Her sentence started with his name, but seemed to end with it too. She picked up with a new thought, a redirection, of strange words to cover the true look on her face. “we got married in just as little time, try to think of--”

“Exactly. I did the same thing. I can expect the same from him.” He spat, pointing at Harry. “I can expect him to keep his head down and obey _me_.”

“What about the plan that was already set out for me?” Harry cut in, his fingers still digging into his arm. He could feel the uncomfortable and unnameable tug of the stitches. “I was meant to be in love.”

“No one is meant for that.” Martin said shortly. “It never lasts. Didn’t you ever study history?”

Harry had. He’d read, distantly, the way people fell in love freely and repeatedly. A strange world that allowed growth and mistakes-- ones that were always fixable. He also remembered the first Engraving, the emerging of an angelic defect. The first cut and sacrifice to the First Great Marriage. The first prayer to be left with skin and soul intact. The first ignored plea screamed from the cavernous chapel of Christ. The second coming of Adam was a twenty year old woman, begging to be left with her own Eve, who stood at the other end of the altar watching a haze consume the light in her eyes.

The words on the page read like a massacre. Paradise had been stolen from humans, lost to Harry and never able to be regained.

“We can’t wait any longer, Catherine. If he cuts his side of the deal I’ll have lost all that mon--” Martin stopped and unclenched his fists and pressed them flat against the table. “He gets married this week. We just need the businesses to join and then, he can’t leave with it. Six months keep him here and then Andrew will--”

“Martin. Think what you’re asking of him! If you keep--” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to him, but the adrenaline pulsing through them made whispering impossible. “If you keep pushing him, he’s going to smart up. He’ll _know_ something’s going on. We raised a bright boy.”

“We raised a piece of legal cattle.” Martin said. He was setting the record straight. “He’s going to marry the Shaw boy and keep his head down and be the husband we’ve raised him to be: quiet.”

“Martin...” Her point was lost with her own grief, swarming and forgotten. Her eyes darted up to Harry, assurance needed to be found on his face; she’d never found forgiveness for her own forced hand.

Louis was still trying to reach back at Harry through his sleeve. Harry’s fingers dug deep into the skin around him as he turned around and walked to the stairs. He was sure they called after him, but he didn’t hear a thing.

Ringing started in his ears, then began to echo down through his body. His bones began to rattle like the shockwaves of an earthquake were trying to rip him apart. By all intents and purposes, Harry was in control-- he had the legal ownership of more than he could imagine-- but was being held in the dark.  A blindfold over his eyes and hand covering his mouth. He could feel the dagger digging against his arm again, trying to claim him for a second time. There’d be no name left for him to claim, even falsely-- it would only be the money. His ability to make others rich while leaving himself empty and craving.

Harry stumbled through his door and onto his bed, trying to brace himself as the walls seemed to bend and close in around him. The attic was shrinking, roof caving and floor rising. He was going to be squeezed between the floors, ribs snapping and heart left spilling out for the rest of time. No one would probably ever come to recover him. He’d never get a funeral, no matter how many times they killed him.

The house was a well disguised prison, his adoption chaining him to the floorboards when he was still in his cradle. What voice did he have when he was being traded like a stock, money being exchanged for a tighter chain around his wrist? They wanted to tug the stitches tighter and tighter, hoping the circulation would cut off his heart entirely.

The sound of tapping glass sent Harry scrambling back up-- he was sure the windows were beginning to crack from the pressure. Crouching on the cracked shingles was a shadowed smile, only a pair of blue eyes spotted in the dusk lighting. He waved at Harry, pulling his collar up in the cold. Harry stumbled over, hand cranking the lock and being careful not to open it into Tomlinson and push him off.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came by Liam’s place and they said you took off. So naturally, I booked it to your window, Rapunzel.”

“Huh?”

“Let down your hair and let me in.” Tomlinson said, easing himself onto the roof to let his legs rest inside.

“You’ve been in here before. Why are you asking?” Harry said, blinking. The wall in front of him was stationary, but he was trying to ignore the feeling one was also directly behind him. His words were slow but still an attempt at conversation.

“I know, but I try not to make it a habit of barging in unwelcome. I learn from my mistakes.” Tomlinson said, crossing his ankles. “Is everything alright, Curly? You look like you’re on a different planet.”

“I-I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“I’m less convinced than ever.” He muttered, leaning his head to look at him. “Do you want some company or to be alone?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, do you want to leave or let us in?” Tomlinson reached out and touched Harry’s arm gently.

“Us?” Harry echoed.

“Oh, I’m not the only one who came running.” Tomlinson said, nodding over his shoulder. “I brought your friends. I told you: you’re not going to do this alone. You’ve got either me or all of them-- Can we come in?”

Harry nodded and stepped back, surprised his back didn’t run into the wall. He still had his own space. There was something that was his-- his to _share_.

“Come on, lads. Dirty your slacks and get the hell in here.” Tomlinson called down to the ground. “We’ve got the job.”

Tomlinson pushed himself from the window and onto his feet. He brushed himself off and started pulling his denim jacket off and placed it on Harry’s dresser, rolling up his sleeves. His tattoos made something in Harry’s wearying eyesight shift focus. They were dark covers over the name given to Tomlinson; he rejected his implemented future and he freed himself. Harry stumbled back to his bed, sinking to sit and looking at his hands. His own tattoo seemed to rise off his skin. It was darker. It was menacing. It was a trap.

“Hey, hey, easy. You really look like you’re going to lose it, Harry.” He touched Harry’s arm again in the same spot. It wasn’t until Harry looked that he saw Tomlinson was grazing a growing red stain on his sleeve. He was bleeding again. “How bad has it been?”

“I-- I don’t know. I was grabbing it while they were yelling… I-- I think I did something. Are they going to yell at me? C-Clear me again?” Harry was trying to push his sleeve up but couldn’t get it past his wrist with his trembling hand.

“Hey-- don’t talk like that.” Tomlinson crouched in front of Harry and grabbed his hands. “It’s not like that. Let me see it. Let me see, Love.”

Harry tried again to get his blazer off himself, but felt his entire body feel stiff and uncooperative. He stared straight ahead as Zayn hoisted himself through the window, Liam and Niall nervously behind him. They hadn’t done such wild acrobatics before.

“He wants to marry me this week.” Harry whispered to Tomlinson, who moved to slowly ease his jacket off his left shoulder.

“What?”

“This week.”

“Okay. Okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Tomlinson muttered quietly. “We’re going to help you. We’ll figure it out.”

“Zayn already did.” Harry said. “And there’s nothing else. This is it. I’m done. I’m done. It’s all my fault. It’s all _my_ fault. Louis’ all gone-- _dead_ \-- because of me. Fuck… I thought I was going to love him.”

Tomlinson’s face paled. He looked guilty and hollowed. He dropped Harry’s hands, like they’d grown too heavy with the added weight of danger, and staggered to his feet. The other three men, still climbing in, jumped back, eyes searching around to find the problem. They couldn’t find it. Neither could Harry, at least not with his eyes. He felt something stir in his chest, like a gasp for breath. As if water had suddenly rushed into his mouth and threatened to sink him in one blink.

Harry grabbed at his chest, trying to stand himself. He had to get his head above water. His legs wobbled, meeting Tomlinson’s horrified gaze seemed to strike him. A pulse of lightning shot through him, down to his feet and into the floor. It was instantaneous, a crashing of pain over him. In a gasp, Harry’s vision flashed out in quick ripples. It was water. All water: cold, freezing, and deadly.

As if dunked into ice, Harry went rigid. His arms felt stuck and his legs popped almost backwards. His balance gave way like the uneasiness of a boat and he collapsed. He expected to fall flat onto his face, or at least to keep falling. But Harry stopped suddenly, hands grabbing his arms and his shirt. Two arms wrapped around his shoulders and a shoulder supported his cheek as he crashed down into them. It felt like the cold crash of ice against his skin. He expected to be bleeding.

“Harry, Harry, alright. I’ve got you. It’s me, I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Harry muttered, the words settled somewhere deep inside himself. It was like repeating an old memory. Watching an old disaster. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry.”

“Wh-What did he say?” Niall’s voice floated in somewhere from the waves around Harry. An albatross flapping, overheard. “Is he talking to himself?”

“H-He’s having an episode.” Tomlinson said, his hands gripping Harry’s skin with sudden intensity. It was like Harry had been thrown by a swift current onto a jeti. “Help me-- he’s slipping!”

The ocean stretched out farther than Harry could fathom reaching. The sun was setting in his vision-- in his alternate reality. One he was remembering despite never living himself.

The water was crisp, like thousands of shards of glass resting against his skin. If he moved they’d puncture his skin and sink him. His joints were jammed and locked into place. He couldn’t move if he wanted, like a piece of driftwood stuck at sea.

There seemed to be a pressure around his chest, like the push of century old waves threatening an intruder. The licks of the waves turned to panic, Harry feeling unable to expand his lungs to fully inhale. He was drowning. Completely above water, he was drowning.

“He’s gonna start seizing or something.” Zayn sounded ages away. “What do we do?”

“No, no he’s fine-- Hey, Curly. You still with me?” Tomlinson was in the water with Harry. Two lost, bobbing heads in an endless ocean. His tone was kind, almost playful, trying to get Harry to follow his voice ashore. “You’re going to feel like you’re drowning, but I’ve got you. We’re here with Zayn and Niall. They’re your friends, yeah? Here to help you out, just listen for their voices.”

The water began to move in frantic slaps around him. His arms weren’t moving smoothly. He was thrashing and nothing could hold him still. The water had hands, firm and controlling. It had voices too: one muddled in vowels and consonants, one sharper and more pronounced, and another sounding unlike the other two. Harry couldn’t place them. They spoke to him, but he had no means to speak back. Only one voice could reach him.

“Curly, hey, take a deep breath for me.” The pressure was back on his chest, softer and with a steady beat. Tomlinson had grabbed him from the abyss he’d thrown himself into. “Hey, don’t ignore me, tough guy. Pretend you’re taking a nice big drag-- _blow_ \-- for me, like we did at the pub, remember? In real deep.”

“Sorry.” Harry sputtered, as if he was spitting the word out with some water.

“Hey no, come on. I breathe, you breathe. Take a deep breath. There’s no water. You’re not going to drown. Y-You came back on shore. It’s cold, I know, and you’re soaked head to toe, but you aren’t in the water anymore. You made it out… You decided to get to shore.” Tomlinson’s voice was quiet. He spoke directly into Harry’s ear, his fingers emerging in the numbness along Harry’s back. The water was retreating, his skin basking in the warm sunlight-- the shining overhead lighting of a home.

Harry blinked and a wood floor came into view. It seemed a sky length away but slowly rose into reach under some feet. Harry’s feet. They were both his own. His body regained autonomy, feeling rising to his skin. There was no surrounding water. No hurtling waves. Barely any pressure on his skin at all. Only the small, pulsing grip of a hand on his back, massaging between his shoulder blades. Like a heartbeat, forgotten but only in practice. Harry’s arms swung out, grasping for Tomlinson’s back, trying to return the pulse.

“Welcome back, sailor.” Tomlinson said carefully, pushing Harry up to his own two feet. He wobbled with uncertainty. The water was still swirling out the bottom of his shoes. “Have a nice swim?” They still held onto one another, even as Harry found confidence in his balance.

“What the fuck was that?” Zayn asked hurriedly, grabbing Harry and placing a hand on his forehead. “Are you okay, H? Can you see me okay?”

“I can see fine.” Harry said, adjusting his glasses breathlessly. They’d been kept on, thankfully, in the chaos. “I’m okay.”

“How did you know what was happening?” Niall asked Tomlinson, moving to help sit Harry back down. He separated them. The pulse echoed under Harry’s skin. The emptiness was startling and unknown. He wasn’t sure why. “Is water… is that common for people that are cleared?”

“No.” Tomlinson said shortly, not taking his eyes off Harry. “It’s specific... to his Betrothed.”

The silence demanded attention. Harry was the last to give his over. He resisted the thought, the _stupid_ fucking thought of his Betrothed. In his most vulnerable and most panicked, Harry just felt embarrassed to think of Louis. His arm was healed and his world was cutting itself lose from its axis all as a cosmic retribution to Harry’s own sins. His first drink, his broken purification, his cigarette drag, his tantalizing thought of kissing the one man he’d dreamed about every night for years. Everything was a punishment. He deserved it, if anything he deserved more-- or less, depending on how Harry thought of it.

Over top of the silence, Zayn explained to Tomlinson what they had discovered. He started with the lost money, the legal books collecting annotations, and finally tabs of paper to highlight the clauses that would save Harry when their bravery came. At the suggestion of stocks, of Martin bribing Andrew to let him have some of the money their business’s revenue, Tomlinson took Harry’s hand and sat down beside him.

“You’re going to be okay.” He said. The touch was tight and made Harry feel like he was being hung from his hand. He squeezed back, feeling the ribbon of scar tissue under his fingertips. He looked at Tomlinson’s tattoos, trying to find the name disguised underneath. She was lost. It was just that easy.

“Do we confront them? I mean, how can you out a man for smuggling his own money?” Zayn asked, sitting down at Harry’s desk. Niall rested against the dresser, arms crossed. Liam began pacing before standing behind Zayn.

“If we let on we know, they could just ship Harry off faster than we could chase. They’ve already had travel talks with Andrew. You signed something, right, Harry?”

“I think so… I don’t really know what it was though. I just wanted him to leave.” Harry confessed. “I probably made it worse.”

“You going along with things being forced on you isn’t your fault. It’s self-preservation.” Tomlinson said quickly, interrupting Harry’s wallowing.

“We’ll figure something out. We’ll sleep on it-- how about that?” Niall suggested, looking at them. “Ready for a sleepover, boys?”

“What? No. You don’t have to. Go home, all four of you.”

“I live with Liam, so I don’t have much to leave for, H.”

“I’m not flying back to Ireland.”

“I don’t _have_ a home. So, let’s get you dressed for bed. You need your sleep. You look exhausted, Curly.” Tomlinson eased Harry to his feet, gripping his arm and leading him to his closet. “Clothes in here right?”

“Dresser.”

“Right, right. I’ve been through that before.” He stopped Harry’s forward momentum slowly, pivoting him on his feet before pulling him forward again.

Sitting on top of the dresser was Harry’s empty ring dish, starting Tomlinson at his hands to slowly twist them off. He stopped at the topaz ring, turning it in his fingers. There was no familial attachment to the jewelry, it was a tactic. Even the approval of Harry’s tattoo was meant to attach him to a place he didn’t belong. It no longer made him feel isolated to realize he never belonged in his house; it was liberating to know that all the rejection hadn’t been meant for him, but the position he was trying to fill.

Harry looked at Tomlinson’s arm, the illegal ink sitting over top the involuntary kind. With his one empty hand, Harry reached out and clumsily swiped his fingers over the art. Tomlinson stopped, placing the last ring down before turning and holding his arm out to Harry completely.

“You really take note to these when you’re half way committed to consciousness, huh?” He laughed. “We’ll get you one, if you want. I know a few people. We can get you a cover up-- for either tattoos you have.”

“You erased her?” Harry’s fingers pressed into the crease of his elbow, trying to feel for the disguised name.

“I don’t belong to anyone if I don’t belong to--” Tomlinson stopped and clenched his jaw. He dropped his arm from Harry and reached to find the clasp of his necklace.

“Who?”

“No one.” Tomlinson muttered, shrugging. “I forget his name.”

Harry thought of all the times Louis’ name had passed his lips in both protest and in private. He couldn’t imagine having those sweet, rounded syllables slip past his tongue and through his fingers. Even if the word would never summon the man, the name was like gripping his ghostly memory. Having it slip through his clenched teeth and flushed face was an imprint of forbidden clarity that he couldn’t imagine letting go of the moment the name was scored out of his skin. Twice.

The disbelief wasn’t blame though. Harry just couldn’t imagine the pain that blossomed in Tomlinson’s chest to push the phantom warmth down and out the soles of his shoes as he ran. There was a healing that was ongoing in Tomlinson, it seemed. The help he was extending to Harry was a greater gesture to the part of himself that he’d lost. Harry just wasn’t sure why Tomlinson seemed to think he’d find it in him.

“Someone want to help me?” Tomlinson stood back as he gently tugged at the front of Harry’s shirt. “Or maybe you can, if you’re with us, Harry?”

“I can do it.” Harry surfaced if only to get his numb fingers to begin tugging at his buttons. He shouldered off his shirt and stood shirtless in the middle of his room. He would have never thought he’d expose himself in such a way in front of someone other than Louis in the future, but he was too washed out to care. He felt like he was alone when he looked into Tomlinson’s eyes.

“Here, put something else back on. You’re gonna start shivering.” Tomlinson said digging around in Harry’s drawer. He placed two shirts in Harry’s hand and nudged his shoulder with all but touch-- he was a millimeter away before pulling back. Instead Zayn’s hands were on his back, helping him lift his arms and pull a shirt back over himself.

“There. Are you warm? Can we get you anything else?” He fretted over Harry, hands smoothing the fabric over his shoulders.

“Louis.”

“What? What do you need, Love?” Tomlinson gripped Harry’s arms by the elbow, thumb carefully avoiding his stitches.

He had already said it: Louis. It was futile, despite getting a response. Maybe he wasn’t being heard. He never would.

“I want to lay down.” Harry muttered, nudging the hands off of him. “I want to lay down.”

“Okay.” Tomlinson could note the muted frustration in Harry’s voice. He stepped toward Harry’s bed and held a hand out, pulling away as Harry walked slowly closer. He didn’t touch him again.

As Harry laid down, six other hands carefully easing him down without falling, he’d never felt more alone. A bed had never felt like such an ocean, isolated and never ending. Maybe this would be where he would drown.

* * *

Despite the exhaustion of the past three days, sleep would not take Harry. His eyes burned as he blinked and his legs ached through to the bone, but he laid wide awake in his bed. His hair felt matted against his pillowcase and his blankets kept catching on his feet and uncomfortably tucking him into a cocoon. He tossed and turned, kicking his feet and pulling at his hair. Giving into his restlessness, Harry sat up and hunched forward, resting his elbows on the mattress. His back groaned and cracked like he was settling stones between his vertebra.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, and the blessing of moonlight from the window, Harry could see Zayn and Liam curled up by his desk. He couldn’t quite tell where one started and ended, but he counted two heads and two even patterns of breathing. Niall was stretched out by the door, his hand braced against the wood like he’d be able to stop any intrusion while snoring and beyond consciousness. Harry turned toward the window, knowing Tomlinson had padded up the floor by the dresser, and found another shadowed form sitting up in his blankets. Tomlinson was staring out the window, unaware of Harry’s eyes.

It was cruel to admit, cruel to even think, but in the dim admission of the moonlight, Tomlinson looked so small. His legs were tucked tight to his chest and his arms grabbed at his ankles in comforting warmth. His cheek rested on his knees and his shoulders lifted in slow, calming breaths. Like the sigh of the ocean tide. Harry felt surrounded by the vision, like each breath was the press of water against his own chilled skin. He pushed the blankets back and sniffled, wiping his nose from past silent tears.

Tomlinson’s head whipped around, finding Harry’s eyes immediately. “Still awake?”

“Don’t act surprised.” Harry whispered. “Why are you?”

“It’s nice to have a bed is all. Bit foolish to dream away the time you could be savoring how it feels.” He shrugged and moved, his legs tucking to the side and preparing to stand. Harry blinked in response although he knew Tomlinson wouldn’t see.

“W-Would you like to sit up here?” Harry moved on his bed, clearing the left side of blankets and body. “It’s an actual bed.”

“No, this is more than fine.” He shook his head and scratched at his neck. “I’m just here to make sure you’re alright… Which you obviously aren’t if you’re up staring at _me_ at God knows what hour.” Harry gripped the comforter bunched at his shins and kicked it to his feet.

“Would you like to sit up here.” He wasn’t asking the second time. It was a hopeful plea.

“I can.” Tomlinson shifted but didn’t get to his feet. “Would you like me to?” They were still speaking across the room, their voices barely reaching the other but the tension practically strangling Harry.

“Yeah. Here.” Harry nudged the blankets and Tomlinson finally got to his feet. “That way we don’t have to shout.”

Tomlinson pressed his hand against the bed first before tucking his leg under himself and easing down beside Harry. The bed was wide enough for the two of them, but a quiet voice coming from Harry’s nervous twitching invited Tomlinson closer.

“Everything okay, Curly?” Tomlinson settled beside Harry and carefully tucked a matted curl behind his ear. Their personal space welcomed blending in a blur of fear and comfort. Harry turned and angled his knees toward Tomlinson, his hands folded and resting in his lap. “What’s on your mind?”

At the moment, looking at a moon highlighted figure of a friend-- a best friend, possibly-- absolutely nothing. And it was blissful.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you still awake then? There has to be something. What’s wrong?” He looked over Harry’s hair while he spoke, giving him strange intimacy without eye contact.

Tomlinson’s breathing was closer but still quiet, still easing Harry along like the washing of a wave. His hands rested in his own lap, although they seemed eager to adjust Harry’s curls again. Harry wanted to take one-- like reaching out and trying to plunge his hand into the water. He still felt the aftershock of his strange, hypnotic episode.

“I’m afraid to get married.”

“Well of course you are.” Tomlinson laughed but there was no humor. “I was terrified.”

“But you said you never did… right?” Harry could barely rely on his own memory, but he knew somewhere in the back of his mind sat the image of Tomlinson sprinting from his home, legs flailing and chest heaving as his feet slid and scrambled for purchase on a mudslide. It was a strange vision; he didn’t remember Tomlinson ever describing it.

“No, I didn’t.” Tomlinson paused. “Don’t know if that makes me more or less courageous than you.”

“I don’t think we can even compare the two.” Harry nudged Tomlinson’s hand, welcoming it back into his space.

“Why not? We’re both being absolutely bent over by the same system.”

“They tried to reorient you.” Harry was positive he’d remember _that_ correctly. “That’s horrible.”

Tomlinson reached back for Harry’s curls. “There’s not much I can do now. Been there, saw that, lost it.” The grief was palatable, heavier than any blanket on Harry’s legs.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry let his curls be rearranged and tucked. He sat patiently in the preening. “What did you picture? Like, when you had your… I don’t know, your _episode_. What’d you see?”

Tomlinson stopped and sat back, taking Harry and his question in. He smiled, joyous and pained as he spoke, “I blacked out once. Didn’t see much. But I had this really strange feeling in my fingers.” He held them out to Harry. “Like they were getting pricked with needles.”

“Oh, I hate that feeling.” Harry said with a quiet groan. “I do it all the time when I sew. Always miss the aida.”

Tomlinson laughed quietly, almost wetly. The waves were climbing in his chest. “I always thought he was hurting himself. Turns out he’s just a little nearsighted.”

“Who is?”

He ignored Harry’s question and continued to stare down at his hands. They began to shake. “That was all I used to think about. Everyone had these beautiful visions, you know? Liam’s were of these beautiful pen murals on the sides of budget sheets, and these gorgeous hands gliding over them... And I just had this aching-- _bone_ aching pain in my fingers. And sometimes, I’d get these weird rashes… Or like, raw spots? They’d show up all over certain spots my body. I’m relieved he’s just clumsy.” Tomlinson’s hands lifted to cover his face.

He was weeping. There was no pain, but he was hurting. His shoulders shook and every attempt to breathe was a deep sigh and shaken sob. Harry sat beside Tomlinson with a frightened expression-- he knew he wasn’t helping anyone. There was so much Harry didn’t understand, especially stirring inside himself. He thought he was going to throw up, he was going to shoot up to his feet and fall again. He was standing at the edge of a cliff and wasn’t sure whether he was going to fall or throw himself off. And Tomlinson just kept crying, like he’d already seen Harry fall.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He confessed, placing a hand on Tomlinson’s leg.

“How is this not an echo chamber for you?” He laughed, lowering his hands and wiping his cheeks roughly. “What did they do to your brain, Curly?”

Tomlinson softened him, as he always did, by placing his hands on Harry. His hands started in his hair, smoothing down his up curled bang to rest around his face. He cupped his cheeks and smiled at Harry’s furrowed and confused expression. Harry tried to find discomfort in the blue eyes staring at him, tried to find a source of off-putting affection or even misled trust. He only saw the ocean, deep and blue. Willing to open up and take him, willing to pull him down into the deep uncertain darkness and let him take a deep, filling breath. He’d be underwater, but he’d get to be free after all.

There was a stirring, a movement in his heart like a shifting of stone. A part he didn’t know had been cast and frozen all this time. Harry felt close to Tomlinson, felt unbelievably accepted and taken. He knew it was probably guilt-- he was unfaithful to two men now.

In a movement that shadowed confidence, Harry placed his own hands on Tomlinson’s face. In the lost depth perception of night, Harry pulled him closer but not entirely into his lips. Harry was still struck with uncertainty and the literal fear of God.

“You don’t have to, Harry.” Tomlinson said, pulling away but hands still holding Harry.

Tomlinson’s voice, the forming of Harry’s name over his pink lips, resonated in Harry’s bones. It echoed a voice he’d hope to hear one day--

It was exactly like his daydream. Harry felt quiet and safe and close-- and almost uncomfortably so. This kind of reality was always a dream, and rare for people like Harry. He’d never get it with Nick. He would only feel the emptiness of his touch, the lacking in his eyes. But Harry didn’t have to forge over too much when he was looking at Tomlinson; his heart eased up, if only for one complete stranger in his world.

“Why do you always act scared of me?” Harry asked.

“Because I am.” Tomlinson blinked and the waves crashed down his cheeks. “I’m not perfect anymore. I’m not made for you like I was. I’m wrong. And God spared you with all this terrible fall out, and I don’t think it was for me.”

“What are you talking about? Made for _me_?”

“Harry, it’s _me_!” He said, gripping Harry with his pin-pricked fingers. The ocean was pounding in Harry’s ears, nearly deafening him. “It’s me. It’s been me. I was afraid to tell you when I heard your name for that first time but-- it’s me.”

Deep in his chest, his heart was rattling between ribs. It felt like there were two heartbeats pounding in his ears. And another hand resting under his skin, feeling everything through Harry’s trembling fingers. Harry was beginning to see double-- but half of his vision seemed to be looking back at himself.

Eyes, blue as the ocean swarming around, and nearly drowning him.

The heat spread throughout Harry’s body reached boiling temperatures, every part flushing and pulsing under his fingers and stare. Every sound in his ears was double, triple with his own echo, but everything was in sync. It was Louis’ heartbeat, his breath, his jitters, his own nervousness pounding in Harry’s chest and making every touch feel strangely familiar; it was Louis touching his own body.

“L-Louis?”

“Hi, Curly.” Louis said, smile timid but bright. It was like looking in the face of a dream; everything was soft and rounded. It was the passing of tears and relief to feel Harry’s own soul return to him. It had come back three years prior, sitting at Christmas Eve, but it was finally able to awaken and share its twin with the rightful owner.

“I never thought I’d meet you.”

“Knowing you has been the best part of my life. I’m glad I get to reintroduce myself.” Louis chewed his bottom lip and Harry was never more sure of his own impulses.

The tremble in Harry’s breath brushed over Louis’ lips before pressing together. Harry made a sound-- like a quiet squeak or a whimper of relief. He was admitting to himself he had no idea what was coming, but he was delightfully terrified to find out. There were parts of Louis that Harry had to give back to him, parts of his soul that were as old as the Earth that had be stuck to Harry’s hovering soul, and parts of Harry that he longed to finally have fitted back into him.

Everything in his world had been contrived and built, even his feelings for Louis were predetermined, but what they were doing, alone and together, was new to them both. A new secret being shared in the dim light. Harry didn’t know how to correctly express the coiling and complicated feelings inside him. He was sure he was doing it all wrong.

“I’m sorry.” Harry spoke against Louis’ lips, too terrified to pull away.

“Why are you sorry?” Louis gripped Harry’s cheeks tightly but broke their contact. He shook his head in front of Harry, completely baffled.

“I’m not supposed to feel anything.” His heart was racing and he could feel a knot in his stomach already trying to anchor itself against Louis. “But I do. I can’t help myself.”

“I do too.” Louis kissed Harry again, coaxing his own lips to spread across Harry’s like they both knew they were meant to. “I thought they’d broken my heart forever, but here you are with all the pieces.”

“Why can I feel something for you?” Harry’s hand fell to grip at Louis’ elbow and arm, echoing the grip he could feel on his own arm, coiling around his stitches. “What’s wrong with me?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you-- this is what it’s supposed to feel like.” Louis was convincing himself, as well as Harry, returning his grip on Harry’s arm. It wasn’t until his warm palm pressed against his skin that Harry could feel the slick heat of his own blood on his arm. He hadn’t noticed.

“What is?”

“Love.”

The thought had never occurred to Harry. Through all the shallow intake of breaths, for the hopes of catching a brief wisp of menthols or the relief found in the eyes of a stranger, that it was _love_. Dormant and unlabeled love. It couldn’t identify itself without being known, and couldn’t be known without a recognition those feelings weren’t pangs of anxiety or unhinged visions.

In the first moments out of the house, their paths had crossed, as if patiently waiting for the chance. His heart had been pounding in the pub and skipping entirely out of his chest during his party, but he’d overlooked it all to favor the expectations of the situation. The entire time though, since Harry had turned twenty, he’d been in love. And he was sitting across from his Betrothed, hands tangling in his shirt and lips curling awkwardly as a smile broke their kiss.

There was an instinct to be ashamed, to spit out the words of adoration that were resting on his tongue-- to spit out his tongue before it did anything else abominable. His one French lesson, a language Louis never even learned to speak, hadn’t been a complete loss years ago; Harry’s mind lost to his own thoughts of that exact moment. Kissing the one man that was meant for Harry, letting his hand touch the warm skin that came from the same soul, far before their world even existed. It was a reunion, not an escapade hidden under the debauched excuse of night.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you as soon as I heard your mum-- whoever she is-- say your name. God, the minute I heard it-- _Harry Styles--_ I just knew. You hadn’t been a part of me in years, but some part of me hadn’t let go yet and I just knew. Harry, I just knew.” Louis repeated his name like it was still trying to escape him, like having it fresh on his tongue would keep it physically in his grasp. “There is so much to explain a-and apologize for. I hope you didn’t think I left you, I just… I had no choice, Harry. It was so terrible and I--”

“I don’t want you to apologize.” Harry said, lowering his voice to just above a sigh. “There’s nothing for me to forgive.”

“Promise me that in the morning.” Louis said with a weak laugh. “I’ll explain everything later.”

“I’m listening.”

“You look exhausted, Harry. And you’re bleeding, I’m pretty sure.” He said, hand wiping on his own shirt. “You can’t listen to anything else. You deserve some sleep.”

“Stay here with me?” Harry gripped Louis’ arm as he felt the mattress weight shift, Louis attempting to leave. Harry eased off as his fingers gripped raised scar tissue. “I want you to stay up here with me.”

“On your bed?”

“Yeah. I’m afraid I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone. Right out the window.” Harry confessed, having seen him navigate in and out too many times to feel certain he wouldn’t use it as an escape route.

“I’ll stay.” He nodded, placing a hand on Harry’s arm and the other against his chest. “With you here, I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

Without letting go of one another, they stretched out along the mattress. Harry could still feel the slick heat of his stitches against his forearm, and Louis’ scar kept brushing against his hand, but neither cowered to their side of the bed. They shared the middle, facing each other and daring any dream they’d have to challenge what was waiting when they woke up.

Having a heartbeat pounding in Harry’s ears and against his hand matching in the same, nervous rhythm was like a hidden lullaby. It was the only thing that could put him to sleep; it was a comfort he’d never experienced. A part of his life he never he knew he was missing was finally restored. Harry was complete. He deserved some sleep.

* * *

“What in the name of hell happened?”

“Is that blood?”

“Is that _fucking blood_?”

Harry’s eyes burned as he opened them: the sun shining through the window and the overhead light turned on. He groaned and tried to roll over, but ran into another body immediately. Louis groaned and mumbled too, only subtly rolling into Harry’s shoulder. On the other side of the bed, standing and staring, were the other three men. Zayn had his arms crossed while Liam was looking around the bed for the apparent source of horrific bleeding. Niall stood quietly, adjusting his glasses and looking ready to change the sheets again.

“Would anyone care to explain?” Zayn asked, but his tone straddled being scornful and curious. Harry sat up, shoving his glasses evenly back on his face-- hoping they hadn’t broken-- and looked down at himself and Louis. They were absolutely _coated_ in dried blood. It was on Harry’s shirt, part of his pant leg, all of Louis’ shirt, on his arms, and even bits getting on the base of his neck. If they’d both stayed asleep when Zayn spoke, it would have been fair to assume they were dead. But Harry wasn’t; he very much had to talk his way out of it.

“His name is Louis.” Or not.

“What?” Zayn gasped.

“Well, yeah.” Liam said.

“Wait, how do _you_ know that?”

“We grew up together. Of course I learned his first name, I just don’t use it-- Why do _you_ care?”

“It was Harry’s old Engraving!”

“His _what_?”

“Would you all just shut up!” Louis muttered, placing his hands over his ears. “Jesus, you lot are just about the noisiest bastards I’ve ever met.”

Liam blinked and turned to Zayn. “You mean to tell me that God paired Harry up with _that_?”

“I’m not asleep yet.” Louis said, swinging his leg out to nudge Liam. “Not dead either, so _shut up_.”

“He’s perfect for Harry.” Niall laughed. “Real soft-hearted.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re out of this fucking prison.” Louis grumbled, still trying to get comfortable. “I’ll get you out of here, Curly.” He reached out and blindly felt for Harry’s hand, gripping it tightly as he settled. “Just as soon as I don’t feel like my bones are exhausted.”

“Why don’t you get up and share this master plan with us so we can help Harry… well, frankly, help him escape while you catch up on your beauty sleep.” Zayn quipped, yanking the sheets off Louis and nearly sending him spilling onto the floor. Harry gripped his hand tightly and pulled him back.

“Curly, your friends are dicks.” Louis yawned, sitting up in bed and moving closer to Harry.

“I’ve never had any friends.” Harry shrugged. “They don’t really know what to do when one shows up in my bed either.”

“That’s fair.” Louis muttered, rubbing his hands over his face.

Things were serious, and Harry was still on-edge about the new dramatic shift in his life, but he couldn’t help but think about every dream he’d ever had about that every moment; the first morning seeing his Betrothed disgruntled by the sun and still tangled in sleep. Sure, Louis was swearing more than Harry ever thought, but everything else was going strangely how he’d dreamed. Or at least, it wasn’t as weird as he thought it would feel.

“It’s Sunday, right, Curly?” Louis asked, rubbing one eye.

“How do you not know what day it is?”

“I was asking Harold.”

“It’s actually just Harry.” He corrected. “They didn’t give me the full name. Just Harry.”

“Really?” Louis’s face softened as he listened, nodding with consideration. “Huh. Harry Edward. Yeah, that has a far better ring. Good call to your mother.”

“How many documents do you think have the incorrect name on it?” Niall said offhandedly with another laugh, still collecting the sheets from around Harry and Louis. It was a nervous gesture; the stains were already set and not moving.

Zayn’s neck nearly snapped as he turned his head. “Incorrect names?”

“Y-Yeah. I mean, he’s got like four different aliases now.”

“Nicholas even has Edward engraved on his arm.” Harry added with a tight jaw. Louis tisked and grabbed Harry’s hand again. Nicholas was a sorry afterthought to Harry’s new life direction; there were so many terrible things about leaving him behind and blind, but Harry had to worry about himself first. There was a heavy sense of relief that Harry couldn’t ignore. It was like being brought back from the brink of death.

“He does?” Zayn had that tense look on his face again; his conversation was going to start going as he pursued his own line of questioning. Harry sighed and nodded. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well, of course it doesn’t.” Niall agreed, blinking at him and shaking his head.

“What do you mean, Zayn?” Liam asked with more patience.

“Aren’t all your documents in your _actual_ name? I mean, since you aren’t supposed to be a representation of the families unlawful merging, you technically can’t change your name, right?”

“He asks like we know anything.” Liam sighed, placing his hand on his back. “Baby, just get to the point.”

“I think I know how to get you out of this.” Zayn said with a grin. “Let me walk you to church today.”

“Absolutely no offense, but have you lost your ever-bloody-fucking mind?” Louis said, craning his neck to stare. “You want to send him into a church?”

“He can get his waiver-- see what name you signed there and on everything else. If there is one slip up everything is void.” Zayn said, smiling again. Harry wasn’t ever going to get used to watching Zayn follow and reach a realization. “Get dressed and let me take you.”

“Why don’t I go with him?”

“You’re legally not allowed to be in this town.” Liam said to Louis, as if anyone needed reminding. “You can’t.”

“When has that stopped me before?” Louis waved him off. “Do you _want_ to go, Harry? Or do you want to do something else?”

“I just made the suggestion, you can say no, H.” Zayn was back to his sociable self, placing a hand on his back. “Now that we know what we’re up against, we can plan other approaches.”

Harry looked down at his hands still smeared with blood. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t Harry that had killed his chance at true love. “I want to go.”

“Harry, are you sure?” Louis grabbed his hand, as if trying to return the blood to its rightful place. “D-Don’t fuck the fire on this one. Please. Not for my sake.”

“It has to be though.” Harry said, starting to climb out of bed. “They didn’t just do this to me. It’s for both of us.”

Niall circled to the other side as Harry placed his feet on the floor. He grabbed his arm and held him up, while also checking there wasn’t any more blood to be smeared around his room. It had to be a controlled determination; Harry couldn’t escape, or at least try to, and leave any reminiscence of blood behind. The look on Stuart’s face the day previous, and Niall’s eagerness to lie, revealed to Harry that it wouldn’t have helped him any. They were the first to cut him, but no one wanted to see it bleed.

“Someone get the blood off of him.” Louis said quickly as Harry tried to maneuver out of Niall’s grasp and over to his dresser. “Don’t let him go out like that.”

“It’s what I look like.”

“It’s not warpaint, Love.” Louis waved a hand out to Niall. “Someone get me a towel or something-- Harry, come here and let someone clean you up.”

“No!” Harry cried, swatting away Zayn as he walked toward him with a dampened hand towel from the bathroom. “Don’t pretty me up for church-- I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Nobody said that.” Zayn held his hands up, towel hanging between his thumb and forefinger. “You’re just literally _covered_ in blood, Harry. I don’t care where I’m sending you, you aren’t looking like that.”

“Si’down, Love. Let me at least wipe your arms and your neck. Make you look less like you’ve gutted an animal in your dreams.” Louis held his hand out to Zayn while keeping his eyes on Harry. “Please, Harry.”

It wasn’t a selfish plea. Harry expected desperation to force him to submit to the preening, but instead he felt a genuine clarity sit lightly over him. He stood in front of the bed with his arms limply by his sides. Louis rose to kneel, carefully cupping Harry’s chin to hold him still.

“Not how you thought you’d spend your first morning with me, huh?” Louis whispered, thumb pressing into one of Harry’s cheeks jokingly. Harry caved into a embarrassed grin and let Louis’ thumb prod at his dimple.

As Louis wiped away the dried blood, Liam and Zayn carefully asked about the placement of clothing in his room. They moved around to find Louis something to wear in his trip back downtown. Liam ended up finding an old, non-embroidered button-up shirt that had been folded in the last drawer of Harry’s dresser. As Harry wiped the last of the dampness from his arms and hands, and Louis handed Niall the bloodied towel, Liam began pulling at the stained shirt on Louis’ body. It was pulled up and over him while Harry shuffled back to rest against the wall. He still needed a moment’s reprieve.

The darkness of closing his eyes was promising, if only for a moment. Harry could still hear Louis’ voice, quietly scolding Liam for being _too damn handsy_ while the floorboards shifted with the shuffling weight of his friends. It was delightfully strange to not truly feel alone, to be surrounded by darkness and heavy, heaving breaths, but for Harry to know he wasn’t alone. His arm was still aching and his body had been cut off from celestial signals, but his soul had still found itself, one way or another.

“Put this on.” Niall said to Louis, thrusting his travel badge toward him. Harry blinked and pushed himself away from the wall. Louis had been changed into a different shirt and a pair of Harry’s shorter pants-- from before he shot up like a tree at sixteen. “Throw everyone off.”

“I don’t sound Irish.” Louis said. Niall began wrapping the band around his bicep anyway.

“Then you better not open your mouth.” Niall said, pulling the two sides tight together. “If anyone asks, you’re mute and you are from Mullingar.”

“How can I say where I’m from if I can’t bloody speak?”

“Does it _really_ matter right now?”

“It’s a fair question!”

“Both of you!” Zayn snapped. “Shut up!”

“How do I look?” Louis asked, staring down at his arms and turning his wrists in the cuffs.

He looked presentable; God-ready, if Harry was being honest. But it wasn’t a proud moment. It wasn’t the rush of borderline getting away with something. No, it felt like another loss, another defeat. To get Louis ready to face God and powers that had pushed him into that brisk water, he had to hide himself. His scar, the most visible and painful reminder of what had been taken from Louis, had to be tucked away under a starched shirt and a jacket. The circulation on his tattooed arm was nearly being cut off by Niall’s lender travel badge. It was all another costume, just like the one Harry had shed a few days ago. To help free Harry, Louis was stepping right back into one.

Never again was Harry going to let himself be ashamed in the eyes of God. Sitting in those pews would be a redemption, a reminder of the two souls that He’d originally, and intentionally, pulled apart and placed into their two separate bodies. If Louis was going to hide for Harry, he’d have to be more obvious in his memory.

Weaving around Zayn and reaching for his closet, Harry took out his bloodied dress shirt. He stared at it, wrinkles and all, before beginning to button it back up over his sunken stomach, and warped ribs. Styles was still tightly knotted to the bottom of his shirt, but along the crease of his left elbow, there seemed to be something missing. There was a blood stain, now stiff and dried brown. Looking at it left Harry with a angry hollowness.

“Who’s got a needle?” Harry said, his throat dry.

“Crafts, Curly?” Louis turned to him with a gentle look of confusion.

“Just _give_ me one.” Harry fumbled on his desk for a loose spool of string while Niall ran a hand over his dresser. He found one, wordlessly crossing the room and handing it to him.

Under a crumpled sheet of paper, Harry found blue floss from a previous sewing project left unnamed, unrecognized, and unfinished. He threaded is needle quickly and pinched the fabric of his shirt tight just over his elbow.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Zayn whispered, an active attempt to not wake the rest of the house.

“I’m fixing my shirt. One last time.”

The work was quick. It was easy to Harry, the image appearing on his shirt before he’d even pushed the needle through. The five letters strung together beautifully. It was then that Harry realized that maybe, it hadn’t been God’s handwriting after all; it had been his own.

Louis. Proud and returned to his home, hovering just over Harry’s skin.

Lastly, Harry grabbed his suede jacket and slid it onto his shoulders. He grabbed his glasses and placed them on his nose again, his scarf wrapping around his neck and covering up to his upper lip. Now, covered in tokens of love and rebelling against attempted control, no one would recognize him. Not one.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Shimmying down the roof and out the window was far easier with a total of five people. Zayn braced Liam who held Louis who eased Harry down to the ground. Niall kept a quiet watch from the bedroom, the only expected voice to answer from Harry’s room in his absence. Before helping drop them both to the ground, Zayn whispered loving threats for them both to _come back in one fucking piece_. Harry promised he would. If anything, he’d finally get to return home completely whole, tightly gripping the part he thought he’d lost centuries ago.

The town felt like it had a thousand eyes, each pair tracing their every move. Trying to find what about them was off, what was their dead giveaway. Everyone in the town had a secret just under their sleeves, but Harry and Louis were being almost stupid enough to show it with their bodies; bumping shoulders, brushing hands, unafraid glances. They were in love and it was the hardest secret to hide.

The church was just as it had always been. Only Harry had changed. He started unraveling his scarf and letting it hang over his shoulders. He unbuttoned his coat before he reached for the door. Louis’ hand beat him too it, carefully opening it just enough to allow them both the space to slip inside. As Harry passed through, he let his jacket slide down, as if revealing his stitches to the omnipresent emptiness filling the room.

“Jesus,” Louis muttered, casting a timid glance up at the ceiling. He seemed afraid of who would be looking down if he did. “Haven’t been in one of these in ages.”

“When’s the last time?” Harry asked, leading them comfortably to his common pew. There were two women, three children, and a man scattered around them. All had their heads bowed and didn’t lift their attention to care.

“Uh, right when I was cleared but, before that? When I was fifteen or something. How about you?”

“Last week.” Harry shrugged. “You can’t be surprised.”

“I’m not. I was just hoping they’d give you a break from the debilitating tales of reassignment and clearing for at least a week. A full seven days.” Louis sat down after Harry. He angled his knees toward Harry and put his back to the others across the aisle. “You grew up so different from me, Homeschool. I’m still trying to process it.”

“Zayn grew up the same way.” Harry shrugged. “I’ve had someone who gets it.”

“But they really pulled the whole adopted, locked away princess thing on you, huh?”

“I-I still don’t understand these references.” Harry admitted, shifting to lean forward and kneel on the rest in front of them.

“W-What are you doing?” Louis scrambled and grabbed the back of Harry’s collar. “What are you doing?”

“Praying.” Harry centered himself toward the front of the church, altar in focus. He placed the sides of his arms against the back of the pew in front of them. “I have to whenever I come in.”

“Harry, you’re a free man you don’t have to--”

“I want to.” Harry had never prayed without bursting outside pressure. But Harry wanted to now, while he was free. God, or whoever was up there, was the only impartial player in the entire scheme. They saw what was being done on Earth and was just trying to save them all. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want.”

“No, I’ll try it.” Louis nodded, staring down at his hands. His fingers traced the risen scar over the back of his hand. It was a ribbon given for the most undeserved pain. Maybe then it would start to fade.

“Lord, I know that You are here with me-- with us--” Harry included Louis, knowing that while he had gained his own ability to talk to strangers in his years on the run, this was on introduction he wasn’t ready to handle. “and we offer up to you our sufferings, together with all that our Savior has suffered for me; and I beg you, through his sufferings, to have mercy on us. Free us from this pain. Amen.”

“W-Why did you ask for mercy?” Louis asked, hastily muttering an amen afterward. He unclasped his hands and laid them flat against his thighs.

“I-I don’t know. I just figured, we didn’t do all this. God’s got to know that. He should leave us as we were… stumbling blind and harmless.” Harry admitted with a shrug.

“You really believed in this stuff, huh?” Louis looked down at the pew in front of him, hands gently tracing the wood grain. “God really was there for you?”

“It’s the only consistent raising I had. Priests taught me how to read, write… unconditionally forgive, needlessly follow rules.” Harry unclasped his hands to pick at his bottom lip.

They were there on their knees, kneeling to the greater order placed on Harry, and falling right back into the trap. Harry could barge into the monsignor’s office, but he’d be asking for a form to find a loophole, not demanding his return to the other half of his soul he’d rightfully found. His freedom was being asked for with a “please” and denied with a kind “thank you”.

“Do you want to go see the monsignor now or… or sit here longer?” Louis whispered, his hands still awkwardly clasped and elbows resting on the pew in front of him.

“A bit longer.” Harry sighed. “I- I don’t think that paper is really going to matter. I don’t want it to.”

“Harry, if it gets you out of any of this-- gets those half-ass parents the consequences they deserve then it’s worth  it.”

“But what about you?”

“What about me?” Louis laughed and it rattled in his chest, one broken piece still loose.

“What is your life going to look like?”

“This. I made my decision and now I have to live with the consequences I made.” Louis reached up and tucked another curl behind Harry’s ear.

“No. Don’t you remember?” Harry said, placing both his hands on Louis’ knees. “You run, I run.”

“No, Curly you have so much at your fingertips, don’t go throwing that--”

“I’m not marrying Nicholas.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I would never ask you to.” Louis shifted onto his knees beside Harry, but grabbed his hands instead of clasping his own. “I’m just saying that I’m the newest part of everything you’ve ever known--”

“No. You’re the only thing that has been the same, all _this_ is just different every time we have to find each other.” Harry was firm, but he was mostly trying not to waver in front of the towering altar. “I saw that water… It was a memory, but I’d never lived it. It was with me the whole time.”

“Harry, listen,” Louis moved closer to Harry, squeezing his hands tightly. “I’m sorry about the water. That’s all my fault.”

“So you lived near the ocean--how is that a big deal? I’ve lived in the same few acres my whole life.” Harry blinked quickly, trying to blink away the tears he saw budding in Louis’ eyes.

“No, no that’s not how it happened. It’s from when I was in France.” Louis said.

“Louis, it doesn’t really bother me where you were--”

“I come from a family of nine sisters.” Louis said suddenly, stopping Harry. “None of their children would have our last name, so they decided that I would have to carry it on. Much like you, they set up all these marriages and ideas and families to try and find the best one to have kids with-- even if we’d have to have someone like you to balance it all out, it wasn’t about the money. They just wanted my name.”

“So they paired you with a woman.”

“I couldn’t do it, Harry. I saw the rest of my life in her eyes-- and it was so dark. I’d be agreeing not only to a few kids or a wedding, but to silence for the rest of my life.” The words spilled out of Louis, having been dormant for far too long. They’d been waiting for the right audience. “The night after my clearing. I--I couldn’t sleep or eat. It was days, or so I’m told. At the time I was just following whoever was in front of me, zoning out in bouts of restless sleep and waking up in a different city, until I finally made it to France.

“I remember standing there… looking out my window, looking at the ocean and deciding that’s how I’d run away. I’d never been swimming before, only ever walked along the shore when I was a kid on holiday-- the one time when all eleven of us were allowed to travel-- but I decided that I could swim it, the Channel, I mean.” Louis said, swallowing as if a gulp of water had appeared. “I was so tired, Harry. I was out of my bloody mind. I can’t even remember how I climbed down from my room. I was on the third floor, fully locked window and doors, and I just found myself neck deep in the coldest water I’d ever felt… You know what that feels like.”

Harry did, and it was an experience that he was horrified to have, but at least it was shared. Neither of them were alone in it.

“I didn’t go in there to--”

“I know.” Harry said quickly, nodding. “It didn’t feel like that.”

“Okay… Okay, good. That first day you mentioned water to me… I was terrified you thought that I’d jumped in-- I didn’t. I was just so panicked, I thought I could escape in below freezing water. It had been days since I’d eaten or slept. But I still had some wit about me and I paddled back.

“I was so cold I had stopped shaking and started to get really hot… I don’t know how I didn’t die on that beach, Harry. I was curled up on the shore, and even though I had been cleared months before, I had this phantom pain on my fingers. It was your goddamn sewing. I felt it and… and I just knew that I couldn’t marry her. I didn’t even grab my shit. I just took off running. I made it back to Doncaster in a week. Haven’t stopped running since.”

“You can stop now.”

“You’re right.” Louis whispered, wiping his eyes quickly. “I can stop now.”

“You’re with me.”

“I’m with you.” Louis shifted on the pew and placed his hands on the sides of Harry’s face. The tips of his fingers played with the curls hanging over his ears. He smiled, but he still looked gutted.

“What’s wrong?”

“You can’t free me, Harry.” Louis whispered, gently placing a kiss on Harry’s cheek. It felt like a goodbye, like he was pressing his name onto the ending of a letter. “But I can’t face losing you again.”

“Then, you know what? Let me get my documents from the monsignor, let me go back to Martin and bring Zayn with me. Let me shake off this assigned marriage-- and we can move away! We can do something.” Harry gripped at Louis’ shirt, begging him to stay despite not having the courage to move away in the first place. If playing by the rules meant that the one absolute truth in his life stayed, Harry could grit his teeth on some stained glass and cut his fingers on the edge of a Bible for a bit longer. At least until his middle name was cleaned from the skin of another man.

“You know you can’t do any of that for at least a year--”

“It’s six months.” Harry said. “Stay with Liam and Zayn. Or go back to Ireland with Niall if you don’t want to stay--”

“I want to stay, of course I do.”

“--and wait for me. They didn’t drop me before I turned twenty so everything is legally in my name. I can write to the Bureau, have everything worked out-- I don’t know. I’ll do something and we can figure it all out. Please don’t leave me. I’ve just gotten you back.” Somehow though, to Harry, watching Louis leave would be like the first time he’d ever lost him.

“We really shouldn’t be discussing this in a church, should we?” Louis laughed quietly, hands still holding Harry’s face. “Can’t let everyone know our business.”

“I don’t want to lose you.” Harry fought every instinct to cry. He’d been so exhausted for so long, just the thought of having to continue his sleepless and hopeless nights, alone and cold, were enough to bring Harry back to the brink of hysteria. “I can’t do it again.”

“I love you.” The distance between them was minimal already, but in a breathy panicked admission, Louis pulled Harry’s lips to his own for a gentle yet hasty kiss. “I have never known someone quite the way I know you, Harry Styles.”

It was an obvious statement, but knowing they both came from the same soul was something they were grappling to understand. It was hard to un-mourn the rest of their lives.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Harry whispered, heat rising in his cheeks. Louis nodded and lowered his hands to grip Harry’s between their laps. “I used to dream about this… Kissing you, in a church.” It was slightly different, and had a future of slightly different repercussions, but it was still a vision Harry had saved for years.

“Let this be our own wedding then, huh, Curly?” Louis’ fingers rose up Harry’s arm to feel for his name under his jacket. “You’ve got yours there, and mine’s just… a little faded now. But it’s all there. Both pieces back together in the eyes of God.”

“What else could a boy want?” Harry muttered, leaning to rest his head on Louis’ shoulder.

There wasn’t meant to be an answer, but Louis paused, twisting his hands in Harry’s grip. He turned and kissed Harry’s temple, resting his cheek on it. Every touch was new, but Harry felt like he was merely remembering how to be intimate with someone rather than learning.

“Nothing.” He said softly. Harry was a moment from asking for clarification when he spoke again. “I’ve only wanted-- heart’s only wanted-- one thing my entire life. But now I have it. There isn’t anything else I need. This reunion is enough.”

The church had emptied by then, leaving just the two of them sitting in their pew. The altar stood before them, candles burning and flickering. The window overhead made it so there were no flitting shadows. The colors of the stained glass seemed to stretch out and hang above them, lifting the limits of the cathedral ceiling to those of the clouds. In a place that had told Harry he was wrong, scorning Harry within his own private thoughts, it was calm and approachable. It cradled them both, if only by creating a space they could both be hidden and seen. They’d made it through thousands of reincarnations, across Gods and time, to reach each other again. Despite sitting in a church, Harry had the feeling they had done it all on their own.

In the end, even after three clearings total, Louis loved Harry. And Harry loved Louis, even though neither would see their own name on the skin of the other. It’d be missing, and the pain would be visible, but the feeling Harry had when he with Louis was far more important. The feeling that his heartbeat was no longer solitary, that it beat with someone else’s, sometimes against him, was the biggest admission of love. The biggest reminder that Harry had made it. He survived.

They lived, and they were going to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for making it all the way to the end!
> 
> if you enjoyed it you can reblog it [here](https://kissyboystyles.tumblr.com/post/184967081996/his-and-mine-glitteredcurls-66k-part-of) if you'd like, or if you have any questions or whatever my [ask](https://kissyboystyles.tumblr.com/ask) is always open!  
> big kissies, cuddles, and thank yous! xo


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